Divinest Sense
by ChrisCalledMeSweetie
Summary: John has been sectioned — deemed a danger to himself and others — and is facing six months in an experimental psychiatric hospital. After his recent drug overdose, Sherlock is being shipped off by his brother to live amongst the mad, as though this will somehow improve his mental health. What will happen when these two damaged men meet under the least auspicious of circumstances?
1. Errors in Judgement

**Divinest Sense:**

 _Much Madness is divinest Sense -  
_ _To a discerning Eye -  
_ _Much Sense - the starkest Madness -  
_ _'_ _Tis the Majority  
_ _In this, as all, prevail -  
_ _Assent - and you are sane -  
_ _Demur - you're straightway dangerous -  
_ _And handled with a Chain -_

\- Emily Dickinson

...

 **Chapter 1 — Errors in Judgement**

 _January, 2010_

Mycroft was an idiot. Why couldn't he understand that Sherlock's recent overdose was simply a miscalculation, rather than a deliberate suicide attempt? If Sherlock had meant to kill himself, he'd be dead right now. That wasn't looking like such a bad option, actually, given his current predicament. His idiot brother was having him shipped off to live amongst the mad, as though that would somehow improve his mental health.

…

When he'd been sectioned, John had planned to wait out his 28 day hold in stoic silence. Apparently, though, he hadn't done a good enough job of hiding the fact that, once released, he'd gladly return to shoot every single Mental Health Professional who'd deemed him a danger to himself and others. Section 2 had now been replaced by section 3, and he was facing six months of treatment at a "cutting-edge psychiatric facility." John had quite a few ideas about what _he'd_ do with a cutting edge right about now…

…

Sherlock awoke slowly, mouth dry, head pounding. He'd obviously been drugged. The irony of this was not lost on him.

Blinking to adjust to the dim fluorescent light, Sherlock took stock of his surroundings. The room (if one were being generous enough to call it that) was roughly six feet wide by eight feet long. In the room was a narrow, steel-framed bed, bolted to the floor. On the bed was a hard rubber mattress. And on the mattress was Sherlock.

What else? No other furnishings. The fluorescent light he'd already noticed was set into a ceiling so ridiculously high as to give him the disturbing sense of being at the bottom of a well. There were no windows in the room. Ah, but there _was_ a door.

On legs still unsteady from the effects of whatever drug he had been given, Sherlock made his way to the door. There was no handle, but he recognised a retinal scanner. Peering into it, Sherlock was surprised when the door slid open with a quiet hiss.

…

John opened his eyes to find himself in a space that bore a closer resemblance to a prison cell than a hospital room. Apparently "cutting-edge" did not refer to patient luxuries, like sheets, or pillows, or windows. Anyone who wasn't clinically depressed when they entered this place surely would be soon. It reminded him of the bedsit he'd rented on his return to London.

John closed his eyes again. Sometimes, it was better not to look.

…

Sherlock stepped through the door, which immediately slid closed behind him. He found himself in a hallway as high-ceilinged and dimly lit as his room. There were five doors, including his own, all with retinal scanners.

The door directly across from him had an engraved nameplate reading Dr. John Watson. Sherlock wasn't surprised when the retinal scanner did not allow him access. Next to that door was one labeled WC, which opened to reveal a stainless steel toilet, sink, and hand dryer, all automated by motion sensors. Across from the WC, directly next to his own room, Sherlock discovered a cubicle with an automatic shower (which wet his right cuff before he could pull his hand back) and high-powered full-body dryer jets.

At the end of the short corridor was a door tantalisingly marked "Exit." It boasted two retinal scanners, one to the left, and one to the right. Sherlock tried them each in turn, then tried them again, and again, to no avail.

This place had Mycroft written all over it. An exit marked "Exit"? He should have known his brother would never make things so easy for him. Sherlock retreated to his room to plan his next move.

…

John had no idea how long he lay dozing before he was roused by a loud knock. He got up stiffly and limped to the door, fuming that his warders had deprived him of his cane on the grounds that it could be used as a weapon. Still, showing anger wasn't likely to improve his current situation, so John schooled his voice to be as pleasant and non-threatening as he could make it before calling out, "Yes?"

A deep, posh voice asked, "Dr. Watson, may I speak with you?"

John noticed the retinal scanner, looked into it, and activated the door. Stepping out into the hallway, he found a tall, pale man in a very expensive suit. Too well-dressed to be part of the rank-and-file hospital staff. Perhaps he was the director of the facility. John immediately decided to ingratiate himself with this man in the hopes of securing an early release.

…

Sherlock — brain still foggy from the drugs he'd been given — did his best to deduce what he could about the man in front of him. Dr. John Watson had obviously just woken up. A night attendant, then. One who clearly did not enjoy his job, but was trying to put on a cheerful face for the newest nutter on the ward. In fact, his manner was deferential enough to suggest that he knew of Sherlock's relation to Mycroft, and of Mycroft's role in the government. This could be useful.

"Dr. Watson, I've noticed something odd about one of these retinal scanners. I wonder if you would be so kind as to take a look?"

Sherlock held his breath as the doctor limped over to the Exit door and gazed into one of the scanners. Nothing happened.

"Oh, I'm sorry, it was the other scanner I wanted you to check."

The doctor obligingly moved over to peer into the other scanner. Again, nothing.

"What is it I'm looking for?" he asked.

"There seems to be some sort symbol etched into it. It's very faint, but if you look closely enough I think you'll be able to make it out."

As Sherlock spoke, he leaned toward the other retinal scanner. The two scanners in tandem activated the door, which slid open to reveal a long corridor flooded with sunlight. Sherlock didn't hesitate. He shoved the doctor away from the door and bolted for freedom.

 **...**

 **End Notes:** Not a very auspicious start to their relationship, I'll admit. But stick around — I promise it will get better.

This is a work in progress. I've written the first six chapters, and will be updating every Saturday. Kind reviews motivate me to keep writing. :)


	2. In the Cupboard

**Chapter 2 — In the Cupboard**

John stumbled backwards, banging his bad shoulder hard against the wall. Cursing, he struggled to stay upright. By the time he'd regained his balance, the door had slid shut. He glared into one retinal scanner, then the other, but the door refused to reopen. John pounded on it, shouting obscenities, his resolution to appear calm and sane temporarily forgotten.

What kind of doctor _shoved_ a patient and then ran off? John hated this bloody place, and every fucking fuckwad who worked here. He tried stomping back to his room, but his leg gave out, sending him toppling to the floor. He lay there, unmoving, wishing for the hundredth that he had his gun.

…

Sherlock's mad dash for freedom took him careening down a long corridor that came to an abrupt end at another Exit door with dual retinal scanners. Damn. He looked into each scanner in turn, but was unsurprised when the door remained closed.

Turning around, Sherlock surveyed the corridor. The sunlight, which had at first seemed to hint at a way out, came from skylights set into a ceiling at least 20 feet high. The walls were smooth, and too far apart to offer any chance that he could brace himself between them to climb up. No escape in that direction, then.

In addition to the doors at either end of the hallway, there were a dozen more along each wall. Sherlock decided to conduct a systematic inspection, beginning with the door to his left. It had a single scanner, but apparently his retina was not the one to which it was keyed.

Sherlock had better luck with the second door, behind which he discovered a cupboard containing every pair of shoes he owned. Strange. The next door refused to budge, but the one after that revealed another cupboard. This one held a single drawer, laid upon the floor, in which rested all of Sherlock's socks, meticulously indexed, just as he always kept them. Curiouser and curiouser, he thought.

…

John eventually grew tired of lying on the hard floor, so he dragged himself back to his room to lie on his marginally less hard bed. He stared at the grey walls. They seemed an appropriate complement to his mood.

…

Sherlock continued his exploration. The doors were set in a pattern, alternately accessible and inaccessible. Every door he was able to open revealed another single-use cupboard — one containing his trousers, one his underwear, one his shirts, and so on.

 _What was the point of all of these cupboards?_

Mycroft. Sherlock had a sudden image of his older brother as a child, teasing him because he couldn't bear to have different foods touch each other on his plate. Mummy had humoured him, buying special dishes with raised dividers to keep everything separate. But that had only made Mycroft laugh at him all the more.

"Really, Sherlock, you're being quite nonsensical. The food all ends up in the same place, anyway. What's next? Are you going to cry if your socks touch your shoes?"

How old had Sherlock been, then? Two or three, at most. Still young enough to worship his brother. Fool.

Mycroft had been insufferable then, and he was insufferable now.

…

The nightmare gripped him. Picked him up in its jaws and shook him. Flung him across the room to land in a broken heap.

John screamed himself awake.

 _Where was he?_ A foxhole? The bottom of a mineshaft? An open grave?

Gradually, consciousness and memory returned. John was awake, but the nightmare wasn't over.

…

Sherlock decided to treat this as a case: a locked-room murder, of a sort. He'd been locked in a room, and once he figured out how to escape, he would murder his brother. This could be fun.

…

John stumbled out of his room and over to the door marked WC. He relieved himself into the stainless steel toilet bowl, noting that although the fixtures were ultra-modern, they did not include a seat or lid. He thrust his hands under the faucet and was rewarded with a gush of tepid water. An automatic soap dispenser produced a blob of medicinal-smelling foam. After washing his hands, John cupped them under the water to splash his face, rinse out his mouth, and then take a drink.

Feeling slightly better, he went back to his room.

…

Sherlock rarely ate when he was on a case — the demands of his body coming in a distant second place to the demands of his mind — so the lack of available food didn't even register as a concern. After hours of searching for clues to the cupboard/corridor conundrum, though, he was forced to acknowledge that going without water was interfering with his ability to focus. It was maddening to simultaneously have a bladder full to bursting and a mouth and throat so painfully dry. Why couldn't his body simply recycle the excess fluid?

Sherlock ignored the sensations for as long as he was able, but eventually he could wait no longer. Returning to the door behind which his Belstaff hung in its own little room, Sherlock donned the coat and then relieved himself in a corner of the cupboard.

…

John had been diagnosed with PTSD by the psychiatrists who'd sectioned him. _Post_ Traumatic Stress Disorder implied that the cause of his condition was in the past, over and done with. As though being locked up in a place like this wasn't causing him traumatic stress at this very moment.

John knew the law. According to the Mental Health Act, in order for him to be detained in hospital, "appropriate treatment" had to be available there. What sort of "appropriate treatment" was he receiving here? The only interaction he'd had so far had been anything but therapeutic.

John made up his mind. He would stop the first person who came through his door and demand (in a calm, reasonable, and non-threatening manner) to speak with an Independent Mental Health Advocate.

…

From the angle of the sun through the skylights, Sherlock knew that he had been in the corridor since early morning, and the winter twilight was now quickly fading into darkness. It seemed pointless to try to continue his investigation in the dark, so Sherlock wrapped himself up in the Belstaff, lay down on the floor, and allowed himself to fall into a fitful sleep.

…

John waited for someone to come and bring him a meal, or take him to therapy, or try to force him to ingest some useless medication. No one came. He stared at the walls. No one came. He dozed, awoke, dozed again, awoke again. No one came.

Eventually, hunger and thirst drove John from his room. He looked around the dimly lit hallway. Five doors. The WC — where he again used the toilet and drank some tepid water — a shower cubicle, his own door, one across from it with an engraved nameplate reading Sherlock Holmes, and the Exit door at the end of the hall. He thought he could hear a faint banging coming from that direction.

…

Sherlock had woken up with the sun, and had spent another day searching in vain for a means of escape. Now, as the light once again began to fade, he was forced to acknowledge that he was badly dehydrated, and that spending another night in the corridor would likely leave him unable to function by morning. Since he couldn't go forward, he would have to go back.

Going back, though, was not as easy as he had hoped. The door through which he'd entered the corridor had dual retinal scanners on this side, as well. He looked into one, then the other. Nothing. Sherlock banged his fists against the door in frustration.

…

Yes, there was definitely a thumping noise coming from the Exit door. John limped over and called out, "Hello?"

…

Was that a voice? It sounded far away, muffled by the heavy door. Sherlock tapped out an SOS, and then stared into one of the retinal scanners, willing the door to open.

…

SOS? John peered into one of the retinal scanners, and was startled when the door hissed open. A tall figure in a long coat came rushing through and immediately made for the WC. A few minutes later, he emerged, face wet and eyes wild. It took a moment for John to recognise him as the man he'd previously assumed to be the director of the facility.

The man's voice, when he spoke, was as deep and rich as John remembered. "You're Dr. John Watson, but you don't work here."

"Right. And neither do you, I'm guessing."

"No. I've been trapped for two days in a hallway full of cupboards. I should have taken you with me — I really could have used a John. Instead, I had to turn one of the cupboards into a water closet."

The corners of the man's mouth twitched upward slightly, and John felt a wave of hysterical laughter rising within him.

…

Sherlock had never in his life heard anything as delightful as the sound of John Watson giggling. The man was a mental patient, obviously, but perhaps life amongst the mad wouldn't be so bad after all.

…

 **End Notes:** Please review! :)

For anyone who's interested, a couple of days ago I posted two short Johnlock fics based on classic children's stories. _The High-Functioning Sociopath Who Walked by Himself_ is rated K, and has been described by reviewers as "lovely" "amazing" and "brilliant." _221B Baker Street, Where the Wild Things Are_ is rated M, and has been described by reviewers as "awesome" and "fabulous" although I would personally describe it as A Bit Not Good…


	3. Cracking Up

**Chapter 3 — Cracking Up**

Sherlock couldn't stop laughing. He was gasping for breath, his sides ached, and tears were stinging his eyes, but he couldn't stop. Every time he tried to regain his composure, one glance at John set him off again.

Laughing like loons, that's what they were doing. A couple of loons in the loony bin. Barking with laughter. Barking mad. Cracking up, in every sense of the word.

…

John couldn't even remember what he was laughing about, and he found that thought hilarious. He slid down the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, head thunking backwards. He shot a look at his unlikely companion. Oh — right — that's why he was laughing: the man sitting opposite him, with his absurdly high cheekbones, his outrageous mop of curls, and his ludicrously long legs that were now sprawled across the floor, allowing his oversized feet in those ridiculously expensive shoes to tap against John's ankle. Oh my god. Was this man playing footsie with him? John dissolved into a fresh fit of giggles.

…

Nothing lasts forever, and so Sherlock's laughter — like the fabled city of Atlantis — eventually subsided. He felt drained, but strangely at peace.

Across from him, John sat slumped against the wall, eyes closed, tears streaming down his face, a faint smile still playing around his lips. The word "catharsis" sprang into Sherlock's mind. It was followed by an odd thought: _This man is going to save me._

…

John wondered whether the psychiatrists were right, and he really was insane. There didn't seem to be any other explanation for the fact that he was choosing to put his trust in a self-proclaimed sociopath who swore he could find a way for them both to escape from this mental hospital. It might be crazy, but for the first time since he'd been sectioned, John felt a ray of hope.

Sherlock — an appropriately peculiar name for that peculiar man — somehow knew things about John that he'd never shared with anyone. But instead of finding himself disturbed by this, as he would have expected, John found it strangely comforting. Since there was no point in trying to hide, he could finally lay down the burden of maintaining his facade.

How ironic that being locked up with a madman should feel so liberating.

…

"We're going to have to work together if we want to get out of this place. Mycroft believes that all he has to do to keep me prisoner is install locks that require someone else's help to open. Well, he's not as clever as he thinks he is. I may be a sociopath, but I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Just because I don't usually play well with others doesn't mean I'm not perfectly capable of cooperation when necessary. Now come here, John. I need your retina."

John snorted. "You're quite the charmer, aren't you?"

Sherlock winked at him, then jerked his head toward the scanner. John obligingly looked into the one on the left, while Sherlock took the one on the right. They both breathed a sigh of relief when the door slid open.

Sherlock waved John through ahead of him. "I'm not interested in being trapped in there again."

John hesitated. "You're not going to leave me alone in this corridor to piss in cupboards and slowly die of thirst, are you?"

"Don't make me repeat myself, John. It's tedious. _High-functioning_ sociopath, remember? Intelligent enough to understand that working together serves our mutual best interests. I have no doubt that I will continue to require your assistance until we are both free. Therefore, you can be assured that I will do nothing to endanger our partnership until that end has been achieved."

"Ta for that," John said dryly.

…

The corridor was illuminated by weak morning sunlight, as Sherlock's finely-tuned internal clock had told him it would be. During the two previous days he'd spent here, he had deduced that this facility was located about 600 miles north of London — hence the shorter winter days. At this time of year, they had about eight hours before night fell once more.

"God, I hope there's something to eat in one of these cupboards. I'm starving!" John said.

"Food is boring. What we need is a way out."

"Food may be boring to you, but ordinary mortals have to eat to survive. I'm going on my third day with nothing but water. If you don't want me to turn cannibal, you'd better hope we find food soon."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Let's see if you can open the doors that I couldn't."

John was able to access the first cupboard, but was disappointed to find nothing inside except his pyjamas. He didn't plan on hanging around this place long enough to need them. His frustration grew as he opened each successive door to discover another item of clothing. What use were socks and pants and vests? He'd gladly run around starkers if only he could find something to eat.

In the last cupboard, John finally found something useful — not food, but his cane. He hated the thing, but had never been so glad to see it.

"Your limp is psychosomatic, you know."

"That doesn't make it any less real."

"Touché."

"There's nothing else to see in this corridor. Let's try to open the Exit door."

The dual retinal scanners responded to their synchronised approach. They could see nothing but another hall beyond the doorway. Sherlock stepped through, and John followed. As soon as he did so, the door slid closed, plunging them into darkness.

John waited for his eyes to adjust, but the blackness was complete. The only time he'd ever experienced anything like it was during his sole caving adventure, when he and his mates had all switched off their torches at once. He took a deep breath, willing his heart rate to slow.

Sherlock's voice was a welcome beacon in the darkness. "Take my hand. We don't want to get separated."

 **End Notes:** Okay, now we're getting somewhere. What do you think will happen in the dark? I'd love to hear your ideas. :)


	4. In the Dark

**Chapter 4 — In the Dark**

John stepped forward into the darkness, Sherlock's large hand warm in his own. He held his other hand out in front of him, feeling for obstacles. John counted eighteen paces before he came up against a wall. He groped around until he located what felt like one of the now-familiar retinal scanners. Next to him, Sherlock did the same.

Leaning toward the scanner, which must have had a heat-sensor to detect their proximity, John was temporarily blinded by a sudden light — painfully bright after the pitch blackness to which his eyes had become accustomed. He heard a door hiss open, and Sherlock pulled him through into a space just as dark as the one they'd left. Once again they stepped forward hand in hand.

They had only gone a few paces before John banged into a wall. It was barely four feet high, so he'd missed it with the hand he was holding in front of his face. He heard Sherlock's soft _"oof"_ of surprise, as he, too, fetched up against the wall.

…

Now this was interesting. Sherlock swept his hand along the top of the low wall. It went back about eighteen inches, and stretched to either side as far as he could reach. There was a slight depression over to his right. He tugged John in that direction so that he could investigate further.

"There are two hand-shaped indentations here, lined with glass. They may be fingerprint or palm scanners. I'm going to let go of you so that I can try to activate them."

Sherlock placed his hands on the glass, but nothing happened. "Maybe they're coded to your hands," he said, guiding John into place. Still nothing.

"Let's each try one," John suggested. "I'll take the left."

Sherlock stood behind John, reaching around him to place his right hand on the glass. _Success!_ With a quiet whirring, the two hand scanners slid away from each other.

…

John reached down into the newly exposed opening and felt around in the darkness. There was a bowl-shaped hollow, about six inches deep. His hand closed around a foil packet.

"I've got something."

"What is it?"

"It feels like one of those little bags of peanuts the airlines used to serve."

John brought the packet up to his nose and carefully pulled it open. _Yes! Peanuts!_ It took all of his willpower to resist immediately tipping the whole bag into his mouth. "Would you like some?"

"Digestion slows down my thinking. You go ahead."

John didn't have to be told twice. The scent was making him salivate. He emptied the bag into his mouth and sighed with pleasure. There were only half a dozen peanuts, but they were the best he'd ever tasted.

…

The pleased sounds John made as he ate the peanuts gave Sherlock an odd feeling low in his abdomen. Perhaps he _was_ hungry, after all. No need to dwell on that, though. Taking John's hand once more, Sherlock tugged him back in the direction from which they'd come.

"Wait!" John cried. "There may be more food further down this wall."

"I expect there is. But we need to go about this systematically. The acoustics suggest that we're in a vast space. I'm going to make a mental map, starting with the door we came in through."

Once he located the door, Sherlock slid his hand up until he felt the ceiling with his fingertips. He turned back around, bringing John with him. "I'm going to keep my hand on this wall. Can you reach the low wall across from the door without letting go of me?"

Sherlock felt John step away from him, drawing their linked hands up a bit. "Yeah — I got it."

"Good. As we move forward, feel along the top for anything that may be significant."

"The only thing significant to me at this point is food. And you'll know the moment I find another one of those palm scanners, 'cause I'll be dragging you over here and slamming your hand down on it."

…

A few paces past the place where he had found the heavenly peanuts, the low wall John was following came to an abrupt end.

"The wall ends here. Should we see what's on the other side?"

"We won't be seeing anything in this pitch darkness. But yes, let's explore the other side of it."

John guided Sherlock around to the back of the wall. Sherlock came in close as they were turning, but then pulled slightly away from him. "There's a low wall over here, too. I feel another set of palm scanners."

John was instantly across the gap, reaching out blindly to find the indentation in the top of the wall. The second they'd activated the release mechanism, John plunged his hand into the opening and was rewarded with a miniature box. "Raisins!"

There was a soft chuckle in the darkness. "Are you always this excited about your food?"

"No. But then again, I've never gone hungry for three days before."

"I often go this long without food when I'm on a case."

John waged an internal battle before saying, "As a doctor, I'm duty-bound to tell you that that isn't healthy. You should eat some of these."

"I don't like raisins."

"Fine. But as soon as we find something you _do_ like, I'm going to insist that you eat. After all, if you die of starvation, I'll be stuck dragging your corpse around and prying your lifeless eyes open every time I come to a retinal scanner."

The snort of laughter from his companion made John smile nearly as much as the fact that he got to eat the entire box of raisins by himself.

…

Sherlock was intrigued, a rare and pleasurable feeling. He and John had been navigating the dark labyrinth for a couple of hours, following a byzantine path between the low walls. As his mental map of the place grew, so did his determination to find a way out of the maze.

Their exploration was punctuated by periodic stops for food. Sherlock allowed John to cajole him into sharing a tiny bag of pretzels, some beef jerky, a snack pack of Jammie Dodgers, and some sort of vaguely cheese-flavoured atrocity that John referred to as Wotsits. Although he'd never admit it, Sherlock's body appreciated the sustenance.

And although he'd never admit this, either, Sherlock was also beginning to appreciate John's company.

…

John's enthusiasm for finding food began to dull somewhat after he discovered his second bag of salted peanuts. His stomach no longer felt quite so hollow, but he was now desperately thirsty.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Does the mental map you've been creating include a way for us to get back where we started?"

"Of course."

"Well, I hate to say this, but I think we'd better turn around. It won't do either of us any good to get dehydrated."

There was a moment of silence, and John prepared a rebuttal for the argument he was certain Sherlock was about to throw at him. When Sherlock did speak, though, John was surprised by his words.

"You're right. There's a pair of Wellies in my shoe cupboard. We can wash one of them out and use it to bring water along when we come back here."

John snorted. "You want me to drink out of your boot? I've got a pair of Wellies, too. I think we should use one of mine."

"That's ridiculous."

"Why?"

"Don't be an idiot. My feet are much larger than yours. Therefore, my boot will hold more water."

"Your head is much larger than mine, as well. Therefore, it will hold more delusions of grandeur."

Sherlock's only response to that was to squeeze John's hand as he turned and headed back in the direction from which they had come.

…

It was an easy feat for Sherlock to retrace his steps through the darkness. His mental map of this maze was as accurate as his mental map of London, without the vagaries of road construction or traffic hazards. In less than half an hour, he and John were back at the doorway through which they'd entered the labyrinth.

Positioning himself by feel in front of one of the retinal scanners, and guiding John to do the same, Sherlock was momentarily stunned by a flash of light stabbing painfully at his eyes. He and John stumbled through the doorway and into the welcome darkness of the corridor beyond it. They strode forward, hand in hand, until they came to the next door.

…

As the door at the far end of the corridor slid open, John blinked against the sunlight ahead. He caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye — his cane, lying on the floor. He hadn't even realised he'd left it behind.

How extraordinary. Sherlock had said, "Take my hand," and John had done so, without hesitation, releasing the cold support of his cane for the warm comfort of human contact. He looked down at the cane, then down at his hand, still linked with Sherlock's. John stepped through the doorway.

 **End Notes:** Did I mention that this is going to be a slow build fic? Good things are coming, I promise, but you'll have to be patient for a bit longer…

In a comment on the previous chapter, a reader over on AO3 wrote, "I wonder what is in the dark corridor!" Well, that reminded me of one of my favorite spooky kids' books, so I just had to write a Johnlock version. I titled it "In the Dark, Dark City" - check it out. :)


	5. Lab Rats

**Chapter 5 — Lab Rats**

John glanced over at Sherlock, who was muttering something about "lab rats" and "sodding Mycroft".

"Who's this Mycroft you keep mentioning?"

"My archenemy."

John mentally added _paranoid delusions_ to his list of reasons why his companion had been sectioned. "People don't have archenemies, Sherlock."

" _I_ do. He's the man who put me here. And somewhere along the line you must have run afoul of him, as well, because here you are with me."

John made a non-committal noise.

Now that he'd slaked his thirst and dulled the sharp edge of his hunger, he was becoming increasingly aware of a certain ripe odour emanating from his body. It had been three days since he'd bathed, and during that time he'd been under considerable stress. The cupboards filled with his clean clothing, which he'd at first dismissed as unnecessary, now beckoned.

"Do you mind if I have a quick shower?"

"Fine. It'll give me time to update my Mind Palace."

John grinned. _Of course_ Sherlock had a Mind Palace. _Grandiose_ as well as _paranoid_ delusions…

…

There was a new wing under construction in Sherlock's Mind Palace. It contained detailed plans of the parts of this facility he'd already explored, as well as secret passages linking it with the Mental Health Act Belfry, the Mycroft Dungeon, and the Escaping from Sticky Situations Tool Shed. Nothing surprising there.

What _was_ unexpected, though, was an entire suite of rooms devoted to John Watson. There was a library filled with relevant books, from _Into the Killing Zone: Dispatches from the Frontline in Afghanistan,_ to _The Oxford Textbook of Medicine_ , to _On Combat: The Psychology and Physiology of Deadly Conflict in War and in Peace._

There was also a pantry, its shelves lined with every type of food John had eaten or mentioned since they'd met. As Sherlock examined one item after another, he could hear again the sounds John had made as he tasted each one. The strange sensation he'd experienced low in his abdomen returned, and Sherlock reminded himself to refuel his transport at the next available opportunity.

Across from the pantry was a sitting room, with comfortable armchairs for Sherlock and John. Above John's chair was a mirror, and in it Sherlock could see himself, reflected back — more confident, more attractive, more brilliant, more likeable, more _human_ than he'd ever appeared in a real-life mirror. Half-fascinated, half-embarrassed, Sherlock forced himself to look away.

Next to the sitting room there was a bathroom, in which John was currently taking a shower. What was that doing in his Mind Palace? Sherlock quickly shut the door on John's wet, naked body. _Must just be a reminder that I need to bathe, as well,_ he told himself.

…

John thoroughly enjoyed his shower. Not that it was objectively pleasant, what with his inability to adjust the water pressure (low) or temperature (tepid). But John had dealt with far worse while in Afghanistan. In fact, something about this shower reminded him of his time in the army, in a strangely invigorating way. Standing there under the lukewarm trickle of water, sluicing three days worth of grime off of his body, John felt more alive than he had since being invalided home.

And what did that say about him? John wasn't particularly given to introspection, but he had to wonder at his current state of mind. Any sane person would be appalled at having been locked up in a "cutting-edge psychiatric facility" that resembled something out of a dystopian science fiction novel. Of course, any _sane_ person wouldn't have been sectioned in the first place.

So what was John thinking? Well, for the first time since leaving the army, John had a goal. He would escape this insane asylum — not a hospital _for_ the insane, but one clearly designed _by_ them. His sense of purpose was strengthened by the knowledge that Sherlock needed his help to escape, as well.

Sherlock. He was an unlikely ally, but something about him drew John in. Something he didn't care to examine too closely at present.

…

It felt good to be clean. Sherlock was more than capable of ignoring his physical state while on a case, but in his day-to-day life he was actually rather fastidious about his personal hygiene. He sighed with pleasure as he slipped into a fresh pair of silk boxers.

Once he was fully dressed, Sherlock tapped on John's door. "Are you ready?"

John emerged from his room with hair still damp from his shower. Sherlock noted — in a purely objective way — that he cleaned up quite nicely.

…

John's usual sense of direction had completely abandoned him due to the countless twists and turns he and Sherlock were taking through the pitch blackness of the labyrinth they were in. The only confirmation of his companion's assurance that they weren't simply wandering around in circles was the fact that they periodically came upon palm scanners that unlocked new caches of snacks. If he and Sherlock were, in fact, lab rats, then it was a good thing they were together. John would be hopeless at finding his way through this maze to get to the cheese on his own.

John's sense of time was also distorted. He had no idea how long he and Sherlock had been winding their way through the darkness before he felt a sudden vibration beneath his feet. He and Sherlock both paused.

The floor was shaking in a fluctuating rhythm. It took John a moment to recognise the long and short pulses for what they were.

"It's Morse Code. I - R - S - A - H -E - A - D - C - A - U - T - I - O - N - S - T - A - I - R - S - A - H -E - A - D…"

"Well done, John. Let us proceed with caution, as advised."

John felt inordinately pleased by Sherlock's praise. He was well aware that up until now his main contributions to their mission had been to place his eyes and hands where Sherlock directed and to carry the boot with their water supply. It was good to be able to demonstrate that he had a brain, as well.

…

Sherlock and John shuffled forward until their toes tapped the bottom step. They ascended carefully. When they reached the top, the floor once again vibrated with the message in Morse code: Caution, stairs ahead. No more stairs materialised, however; the warning must have been intended for a possible return trip.

Sherlock huffed. As though he couldn't remember where the stairs were! Mycroft didn't need to be insulting.

The upper level of the maze was much like the lower level: completely dark, with intricate pathways leading between low walls. There were palm scanners here, as well, revealing tiny portions of random snacks. No longer hungry, Sherlock squirrelled his share away in the pockets of his Belstaff.

Bringing along water had been a good idea, but what goes in must eventually come out. When he reached yet another dead-end, Sherlock decided it would make a good spot to relieve himself. He dropped John's hand.

"Before we turn around, I suggest we use this corner as a urinal."

Next to him, Sherlock heard John's chuckle, quickly followed by the sound of a zipper and a sigh of relief.

…

John refastened his trousers. As he and Sherlock resumed their trek, he allowed his mind to wander.

The maze they were in reminded him of the movie _Labyrinth_ , with David Bowie as the Goblin King. That led his thoughts to _The Man Who Fell to Earth_ , and to one scene in particular that had blown his mind when he'd watched it as a teenager. A shirtless Bowie, sticking the long barrel of a revolver in his drink and then sucking it off, while talking about seeing bodies of women… and men.

David Bowie — pale, thin, disturbingly charismatic — now who did that remind him of?

John gave himself a mental shake. He was on a mission, here. He had to get his head back in the game.

…

Eventually, Sherlock and John came to another vibrating section of floor, pulsing out the same message. This time they found descending stairs.

Sherlock paused at the bottom to update his mental map. The rooms in which he and John had first awakened were at the centre. Those rooms, as well as the hall and corridor beyond them, had 20 foot ceilings. A low-ceilinged, bi-level maze was constructed around this central area. The part of the lower level that he and John had already explored was on one side. The upper level encompassed twice as much space. Now, they were back on the lower level, but on the opposite side from where they'd begun. If the square footage of the top and bottom floors was the same, he should be able to find his way out within the next three hours.

…

The next vibrating section of floor was pulsing with a different code: T - E - X - I - T - E - X - I - T.

 _"_ _Exit!"_ John cried, dragging Sherlock forward and sloshing water out of the boot as he banged up against a door.

Sherlock dropped his hand. "There are retinal scanners. Here, lean forward."

John felt Sherlock's hand on the back of his head, guiding him into position. He couldn't suppress a gasp of pain at the blinding flash of light after hours in total darkness. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and stumbled through the door.

 **End Notes:** What do you think is on the other side of that door? I'd love to hear your theories.


	6. Hidden Meanings

**Chapter 6 — Hidden Meanings**

Sherlock blinked against the harsh florescent lighting. He and John were in a large room with a door in each wall. The one to their left had a dial numbered from 1 to 100, the one across from them had a numeric keypad, and the one to their right had two pairs of footprints in front of it and a ten-fingered hand outlined on either side.

In the centre of the room stood a three-foot steel cube. Sherlock stepped forward to examine it. There were two sets of palm scanners on top — slightly smaller hands in the middle, flanked by larger ones.

"John, come put your hands here."

John complied, and Sherlock stood behind him, reaching around to place his own hands on the outer palm scanners. There was a click, and a drawer on the far side of the cube slid open. Sherlock lifted out the single sheet of paper contained within. He read it aloud:

 ** _Want to play?  
Then find some toys  
(With the key to the clues)  
For naughty boys._**

…

"What do you think that means?" John asked.

"My idiot brother is trying to be clever."

"Your brother?"

"Yes. Mycroft, being childish."

"Wait — Mycroft is your _brother?_ I thought you said he was your archenemy."

"Yes, John. The two are not mutually exclusive, you know."

"So he's not a figment of your imagination?"

"I wish."

"And he's not some sort of super-villain?"

"That is up for debate. Mycroft is the British government."

"What does that mean?"

"Prime ministers and political parties come and go, but there's always a measure of continuity. That's Mycroft — behind the scenes, pulling strings."

"So you think we're in some sort of secret government facility?"

"I'm sure of it."

"And you think you can find a way out?"

"Yes."

…

Sherlock replaced the paper in the drawer and slid it closed. Beneath it, he could see the outline of another drawer. This one had a small keyhole. Sherlock had nothing with which to pick the lock, so he searched the room for a key. It was quickly apparent that there was no key to be found, however; the room was empty aside from the steel cube.

Sherlock turned to the doors. The one with the numeric keypad had an infinite number of possible combinations, depending on how many digits were in the code. Likewise the one with the dial lock. That left door number three.

What would they find behind that door — the lady, or the tiger?

…

"Take off your socks and shoes and stand here," Sherlock directed.

John leaned against the cube to remove his footwear, then placed his bare feet on the inner set of footprints.

"Now put your hands on the palm scanners."

John held his arms out at shoulder height, elbows bent, hands up, as though waiting to be frisked by the police. "Right foot blue, left hand red," he joked.

"What are you on about?"

"I feel like we're playing Twister."

"Twister?"

"It's a game for kids."

"I didn't play with other children. Sociopath, remember?"

"Right," John said, grinning at Sherlock over his shoulder. "Well, come here, you sociopath. You're going to learn how to play it now."

…

The larger set of footprints was directly in line with the smaller set, but spaced more widely. Sherlock had to spread his legs to stand on them, which brought his pelvis level with John's. He pressed John into the door, hanging onto him for balance.

Sherlock took a moment to reflect on how hateful his brother was. Every aspect of this place was a dig at what Mycroft perceived to be Sherlock's weaknesses. And now here was another one, subtle as a slap in the face. Sherlock could picture his brother right now, sitting back in some control room, watching through a hidden camera, a smug smile on his supercilious face.

Well, Sherlock wasn't going to let a little thing like his general aversion to physical contact stand in the way of his escape. In fact, the joke was on Mycroft, because Sherlock didn't even _mind_ being close to John. _Hmm… Something to ponder later._

Releasing his hold on John's shoulder, Sherlock positioned his hands over John's so that their fingertips alternated on the scanner. Once he was in place, a lighted message flashed on above the door: _Remain still. Lock will disengage in 60 seconds_. A countdown immediately began: _59, 58, 57…_

…

A minute is a long time when you're pressed up against a door, with someone plastered along your back, his hands pinning yours to the wall. John forced himself to take slow, even breaths, willing his body to relax.

Finally the door hissed open, revealing a four foot by four foot room. A second door, with identical hand and foot scanners, stood opposite them. John was about to turn around to reach for his shoes when the door began to slide shut. Sherlock placed a hand between his shoulder blades and pushed him through, crowding in behind him.

As soon as the door closed, they were plunged into darkness. John stepped forward, his feet finding a pair of indentations in front of the door. He reached up, doing his best to place his hands correctly on the palm scanners.

"Come on, Sherlock. It's time for Twister, round two."

…

After another long minute, pressed together in the dark, the door slid open. Sherlock and John stepped through it into an opulent bedroom, illuminated only by the cozy light of a gas fireplace. There was a king-size bed, flanked by matching bedside tables. Two chests of drawers stood next to a pair of wardrobes along one wall.

Heavy curtains hung on the far wall. Sherlock crossed the room and pulled them open to reveal a window, reflecting back the flickering light of the gas fire. When he cupped his hands around his eyes to peer through it more closely, he could make out the dark stripes of iron bars, blacker than the surrounding night sky.

Turning away from the window, Sherlock walked over to a side door with a single retinal scanner. It opened into a luxuriously-appointed bathroom, complete with twin sinks, an enormous claw-foot bath, and a separate shower.

"I'll be in the loo," he told John. "Look around and see if you can find any clues."

…

John walked over to the nearer bedside table. There was a single palm scanner on top, but he couldn't activate it. He had better luck with the one on the far side of the bed. When he laid his hand on top, the drawer popped open.

John stifled a gasp when he saw what was inside. A bright purple dildo sat next to a turquoise vibrating cock ring. Silicone anal beads were nestled between cherry-flavoured lube and a jumbo-sized box of condoms. At the back of the drawer was a pair of padded leather handcuffs connected by a chain. The handcuffs had steel locks, with a small key.

 _A key!_

John struggled to remember the words Sherlock had read:

 _Want to play?  
Then find some toys  
(With the key to the clues)  
For naughty boys._

Pocketing the key, John shoved the drawer shut just as Sherlock emerged from the bathroom.

…

"What did you find?"

John's expression was unreadable as he held up a small metal key.

"Excellent! Anything else?"

"No. I was only able to open one of the bedside tables. Maybe you can open the other one."

Sherlock did so, but was disappointed to find only a copy of the Gideon's Bible. He thumbed through it, but there weren't any obvious clues within, so he placed it back in the drawer.

Next, he and John searched the wardrobes — empty — and chests of drawers — also empty. They looked under the bed, lifted the pillows, pulled back the duvet, and even ran their hands under the mattress. Nothing. They opened the cupboard in the corner, but found only fresh linens.

"Let's go back and see if the key you found fits the drawer in the other room."

Sherlock walked to the door, noticing that the foot and hand scanners were aligned differently here. The larger, outer set of footprints was facing into the room, and the ten-fingered handprints on either side of the door were at waist height, with the thumbs at opposite ends, rather than next to each other.

Sherlock turned around and aligned his feet and hands, then leaned back against the door. John came over and stepped onto the inner set of footprints, placing his hands over Sherlock's on the scanners. With Sherlock's legs spread wide, and John standing between them, they were the same height.

Sherlock was unable to see whether the message light had come on over the door, but didn't trust his voice to ask. He was suddenly keenly aware of all of the places where his body was touching John's. He felt mortified by his involuntary response to the contact.

Sherlock had been troubled by occasional erections as a teenager. It was a relief when he'd grown out of them. The demands of his transport for food, water, and sleep were bothersome enough without adding in any other base urges. Why now, after all these years, was his body betraying him in this way?

…

When the door hissed open, John had to grab onto Sherlock to keep him from tumbling backward. They half-fell through the door together, and it slid shut behind them, leaving them in the dark, cramped hall.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock hummed a vague affirmative.

"Did you see which way the footprints lined up on this side?"

This time Sherlock's hum was uncertain.

"Well, feel around with your feet."

John could sense Sherlock shuffling around in front of him. When he stilled, facing away from the door, John stepped forward between his legs and brought his hands into position. Twister had never felt quite like this…

…

Sherlock recited the periodic table in his head backwards by atomic weight, and then again alphabetically by symbol, studiously ignoring his body. He had reached Hg (mercury) by the time the door mercifully opened. He staggered backwards, windmilling his arms, and miraculously righted himself without slapping John in the face.

John burst out laughing, and Sherlock joined in, relieved to feel the tension between them dissipating.

Pulling the key from his pocket, John inserted it in the steel cube, grinning in triumph as it turned in the lock. He opened the drawer and pulled out a stack of index cards. Sherlock snatched them from his hands.

"Oi!"

Unrepentant, Sherlock read each of the cards aloud.

 **GET SMART. BOND.**

 **Pease pudding in the pot and blackbirds baked in a pie.**

 **Right + left = right & left! Right?**

 **My Beautiful Laundrette**

 **Right days a week left miles behind me.  
Right women on my mind left ladies dancing.  
Right ways to leave your lover left red balloons.  
Right tickets to paradise.**

 **Deduce this password: Render it false.**

"Let's put our heads together, John. The game is on!"

 **End Notes:** Can you decode the clues along with Sherlock and John? Leave me a review with your deductions. 50 points for each one you solve that they figure out in the next chapter. 100 points for each one you solve that they don't. You may want to avoid reading other people's reviews on this chapter, since they might contain spoilers. The game is on! Winners will be announced in next week's End Notes. :)


	7. Sing for Your Supper

**Chapter 7 — Sing for Your Supper**

As Sherlock's deep voice read the words on the first index card — **_GET SMART. BOND._** — John's brain immediately flashed to the contents of the bedside table where he'd found the key. Exactly what kind of bonding were they expected to do, here? The sort of bonding that required condoms and lube?

What kind of pervert was that Mycroft, anyway? Was this whole place some sort of elaborate scheme of his to get John to shag his brother? And if that was what John had to do to secure his release, would he do it? His whole body flushed hot at the thought.

"Let's put our heads together, John. The game is on!"

With a guilty start, John realised that Sherlock had finished reading the rest of the index cards, and he hadn't heard a single word past "bond." He reached out and tugged the cards from Sherlock's hands, saying, "I'm more of a visual learner. I need to read them for myself."

Sherlock gave him a searching look, but didn't comment.

John read through the remaining cards:

 ** _Pease pudding in the pot and blackbirds baked in a pie._**

 ** _Right + left = right & left! Right?_**

 ** _My Beautiful Laundrette_**

 ** _Right days a week left miles behind me.  
Right women on my mind left ladies dancing.  
Right ways to leave your lover left red balloons.  
Right tickets to paradise._**

 ** _Deduce this password: Render it false._**

Once John had read the last card, he said, "Well, there are six cards, but only two remaining doors. Let's try the obvious ones first."

"And which would you consider obvious?"

"Well, they may all be obvious to you, Mr. Genius, but the song lyrics are the only ones that leap out at me."

…

 _Song lyrics?_ Sherlock felt wrong-footed. Yes, he was a genius, but that didn't mean that he remembered the words to every random song he'd ever heard. In fact, he'd actively deleted most of them as being irrelevant.

Closing his eyes briefly, Sherlock reviewed the clues in his mind. "Ladies dancing" sounded vaguely familiar. Something about "lords a-leaping" and "swans a-swimming"… Oh, right, "The Twelve Days of Christmas." He was pretty sure there were nine ladies dancing.

But what about the rest of that clue? There were seven days in a week, obviously. Did "miles behind me" refer to the distance from here to London? Based on the hours of daylight, Sherlock was pretty sure they were about 600 miles north of his home, but the dial only went up to 100.

There were zero women on his mind at the moment. Or ever, really, unless it was for a case. Sherlock had never had a lover, so he'd never needed a way to leave one. And what was this nonsense about red balloons and tickets to paradise? Mycroft wasn't playing fair.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. _Of course!_ This was another one of his brother's obnoxious attempts to humiliate him by forcing him to rely on someone else for help.

He could practically hear Mycroft's odious voice in his ear. " _What's that, Sherlock? Are you trying to tell me that there's something you don't know? A code you can't crack? Are you going to have to ask ordinary John Watson to tell you what it means?"_

 _Shut up!_ Sherlock hissed back internally. _John Watson isn't ordinary._

Sherlock brought himself up sharply. His private dialogue seemed to have veered off track. He had to stay focused on his goal: escape.

Swallowing his pride, he turned to John. "I recognise the nine ladies dancing, but I'm not sure about the rest of that clue. Do you know what the other lines mean?"

…

John was taken aback by Sherlock's admission — _who didn't know The Beatles "Eight Days a Week" or Paul Simon's "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover"?_ — but he didn't let his surprise show. Instead, he went through the clues, explaining each one.

"'Eight Days a Week' is a song by The Beatles, so I assume we start by turning the dial to the right and stop on 8. The next bit is from an old James Taylor song that my mum used to sing to me as a lullaby when I was little. It's called 'Sweet Baby James' but she always changed the lyrics to 'Sweet Baby John.'" John cleared his throat and sang, "With ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go."

"So right 8, left 10," Sherlock said, spinning the dial. "What's next?"

"The next part is from one of my dad's favourite songs. He used to play it in the car all the time, and sing along at the top of his lungs. It's 'Take It Easy' by The Eagles, and it's got a line about seven women on my mind."

"Good. Right 7. Then left 9, for the ladies dancing."

"Yeah. Then there's a Paul Simon song called '50 Ways to Leave Your Lover,' followed by '99 Red Balloons,' which my sister played incessantly the year she had a crush on Nena."

"Okay, right 50, left 99. Just one more…"

"The last one is the title of a song I haven't thought of in ages. When I was a kid, one of my mates had this teenage cousin who used to sing it as a kind of crude innuendo whenever he was going out with a girl he planned to shag." John flushed a little as he sang, "I've got two tickets to paradise…"

Sherlock turned the dial to the right, landing on the number 2. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the door slid open.

…

Sherlock and John stepped through the door into a spacious kitchen, fitted out with every modern appliance one could wish for. A small wooden table with two chairs sat by a window. Sherlock pulled the curtains aside to reveal iron bars against the night sky.

Crossing to the fridge, Sherlock found it functional but empty. The cupboards contained dishes, but no food. There were utensils in the drawers and pots on the cooker, but nothing to eat anywhere in the kitchen.

Sherlock turned on the tap, pleased to have a source of water that hadn't been sloshing around in his boot all day. Something with which to fill the kettle, then, if all they wanted was hot water, and not actual tea…

Sherlock's eyes fell on another door with a numeric keypad. He turned to John.

"Which of the other clues did you think was obvious?"

"The one with the songs my gran used to sing to me. _Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold, pease porridge in the pot, nine days old_."

Sherlock gave him a horrified look. "Why on earth would your grandmother sing about nine-day-old porridge?"

"It's a nursery rhyme. And so is the rest of that clue: _Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye, four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie_."

"Well, setting aside the complete lack of gastronomic appeal, both of those songs do have numbers in them. Pease porridge in the pot and blackbirds baked in a pie could be 9420, 924, or, if we add them together, 33. I think a four digit code is most likely."

Sherlock typed in 9420.

…

John whooped in delight as the door slid open to reveal a large, fully-stocked pantry. The walls were lined with floor to ceiling shelves containing enough non-perishable food to feed an army. In fact, John recognised many of the prepackaged meals as items from the Rat-Packs he'd consumed while deployed in Afghanistan.

Sherlock didn't appear to be particularly interested in the food. No surprise there, John supposed. Instead, he had headed straight for the door set into one wall.

"John, did any of the other clues remind you of your childhood?"

"My childhood?"

"Yes. Clearly, Mycroft did some deep background research on you and your family, and he's used that knowledge to create clues that will be meaningful to you, but not to me. So far, there have been song lyrics that were important to your mother, your father, your sister, your grandmother, and even one of your childhood friends. Was there anything like that in any of the other clues?"

John looked back at the index cards, racking his brain for anything familiar. Suddenly it came to him.

" _My Beautiful Laundrette!_ It's a movie I saw when I was maybe 11 or 12, and it was the first time I'd seen two men kissing. I'd snuck into the cinema with this mate of mine — my best mate, up until that point — and he got really freaked out when he realised the film was about gay men. He wanted to leave, and I wanted to stay, and he ended up walking out without me. Things were never the same between us after that. He pulled away, and we drifted apart, I guess. I'd completely forgotten about that movie until just now. I guess I blocked it out of my mind, or something."

"Is there a number associated with that film?"

"Not that I remember."

"What year did it come out?"

"Hmm… Must have been '85 or '86, I think."

Sherlock entered 1985 on the keypad, and the door slid open. John laughed when he saw the room beyond.

"My beautiful laundrette, indeed. I guess if we're stuck here for awhile, at least we'll have clean clothes."

…

 **FF End Notes:** How many of those codes did you figure out? Were they too cryptic, or were you just shy about sharing your ideas? Any guesses about the remaining clues?

 _sweetmarly_ wins the prize for deducing that I am, in fact, Mycroft. I love making Sherlock and John dance. I hope you're enjoying it as much as I am. ;)

 **Please review!**


	8. If You Can't Stand the Heat

**Chapter 8 — If You Can't Stand the Heat…**

After 45 minutes of careful inspection, Sherlock determined that the laundry room, pantry, and kitchen were just as they appeared, and contained no further clues.

"This wing is a dead end. We'll have to go back and figure out the code for the numerical keypad on the final door."

"I don't know about you, but I'll be able to think more clearly once I've had a proper meal. Come on, let's pick out something we both like."

Sherlock grumbled, but allowed John to drag him into the pantry, where he selected chicken tikka masala and a cheap bottle of Pinot Grigio.

"The least Mycroft could have done is provide us with some passable wine. There's not a single decent vintage on this rack."

"Sherlock, we're trapped in some weird, experimental government psychiatric facility, and you're worried about the quality of the wine? I'll just be thankful to drink something that comes out of a bottle, rather than out of your Wellie."

Sherlock huffed, but secretly agreed.

…

John busied himself heating up their dinner while Sherlock opened the wine.

The whole situation was surreal. What was this place, really? Clearly not a hospital, with no doctors, no nurses, no orderlies or attendants of any kind. Some sort of prison, or military base, then? But if so, where were the guards? Watching through hidden cameras, as he and Sherlock bumbled about?

What was the point of it all? Why such an elaborate setup, with retinal, palm, and foot-scanners all keyed specifically to him and Sherlock? Why coded clues related to his childhood? Why the dark labyrinth, or a pantry stocked with field rations and wine, or a bedside table with…

John put a firm halt to that train of thought.

…

Sherlock picked at his food, sipped his sub-par wine, and studied the man sitting opposite. John was hiding something. From _him_. How was that even possible?

Dr. John Watson was an enigma. Sherlock could easily blame his initial difficulty with reading the man on the fact that he had been drugged. Even a brain as advanced as his own was susceptible to chemical interference. Once the drugs had worn off, though, Sherlock had rapidly deduced everything he thought he needed to know. So what was he missing?

John had appeared open and friendly. Perhaps _too_ open and friendly, come to think of it. Why had he not yet told Sherlock to piss off?

And now, John was hiding something. Sherlock could read the tells — the quickly averted glances, the licking of his lips, the stiffening of his spine into a military posture — but what did they mean? What was it that he didn't want Sherlock to know?

Could John be in league with Mycroft? Sherlock considered that possibility for a horrifying fraction of a second before dismissing it. All the evidence told him that John could be trusted.

Still, there was something John wasn't saying, and Sherlock wouldn't rest until he figured out what it was.

…

Disconcerted by Sherlock's probing gaze, John unconsciously licked his lips once more. Ironically, the domesticity of the current scene — with John sitting across the table from Sherlock, sharing a meal — felt more bizarre to him than anything else they'd done together. Maybe it was time to put the focus squarely back on their escape plan.

John cleared his throat. "So, there are three clues left. Any ideas?"

" _Right + left = right & left! Right?_ most likely refers to another dial lock, which we won't encounter until we get past the numeric keypad. _Deduce this password: Render it false_ sounds like a classic paradox that could be solved in at least a dozen ways, but all of them would involve words rather than numbers. So, again, it's probably for a subsequent lock. That leaves _Get Smart. Bond._ "

John felt his face flush, and hoped that Sherlock would chalk that up to the spiciness of their food. _Get your mind out of the gutter!_ he told himself firmly. _There are plenty of ways of bonding that don't involve a drawerful of sex toys._

Aloud, John said, "Okay, so maybe the code is some combination of numbers that are meaningful to each of us. Like, my birthdate and yours, or both of our heights added together, or something."

Sherlock gave him an approving look. "Yes, that would fit with Mycroft's machinations."

"You really think your brother is behind all of this?"

"Don't make me repeat myself, John. It's tedious. Mycroft had the means, motive, and opportunity." Sherlock ticked each point off on one of his long, slender fingers. "Means — the full resources of the British government. Motive — he has delighted in trying to assert his superiority over me since we were children. Opportunity — my unfortunate miscalculation of dosage and your refusal to play the therapy game provided the perfect excuse for sectioning us. And now, here we are."

"But _why_ , exactly? Are you seriously telling me that this is just a case of sibling rivalry on steroids? That the government would allow your brother to misappropriate funds, build this whole complex, and kidnap civilians, all because of a childhood feud? I don't buy it."

"I'm not trying to sell you anything, John. I'm simply stating the facts. Mycroft is more than capable of pulling this off, and no one would dare to question him. However, if you must have a more rational and less petty reason for the government to sanction his actions in this instance, well, he's been nagging me for years to consult on cases of national security. I've always refused, stating that I am incapable of working with any of those Queen and Country types. I presume that's where you come in."

"Why me?"

"You volunteered to serve Her Majesty on the field of battle. Therefore, you met Mycroft's requirement for Queen and Country. He obviously also did a thorough enough background check and psychological profile to determine that you were unlikely to immediately use your combat training to murder me. My brother may be an insufferable, pompous arse, but he does not actually want me dead."

John snorted.

"No, he wants to force me into admitting that I _am_ capable of working with a Queen and Country type like you, and that you may even know and be able to do things that I could never figure out or achieve on my own. Though it pains me to say it, his plan is actually quite clever. If I succeed in escaping by accepting your help, he'll say he's proven his point that I _could_ choose to work with the government if properly motivated to do so. If I am unable to escape, he'll wait until I can't bear to be trapped here a moment longer, and then offer me my freedom in exchange for my consulting skills."

"Are you really that brilliant, that the government would go to such extreme lengths to recruit you?"

"Yes."

Another snort. "No false modesty here."

"I know my strengths, and I know my limitations. Mycroft is attempting to make use of the latter by posing clues that I, with my superior intellect, will be at a loss to solve without your aid. He believes that I have always been too arrogant to ask for help, and too off-putting to inspire others to offer it. But you and I shall prove him wrong."

"Right. I'm more than willing to help in any way I can if it means getting out of here."

"Good. So, the next clue. If we have to bond in order to escape, let's get started. Now, the numbers for the code are unlikely to be based on anything I could deduce for myself, like your height, or weight, or shoe size. But birthdays could work. We'll start there, and work our way through all the other numerical data about ourselves."

…

Half an hour later, Sherlock and John had shared every personal number they could think of — from significant dates such as birthdays and graduations, to NINOs, UTRs, and National Health Service numbers, to childhood phone numbers and addresses. John had lamented the lack of paper and pencil to write all the information down, but Sherlock had assured him that he would recall every fact.

"That seems to cover it," John said at last. "I can't think of any other relevant numbers."

"Oh, you never know what Mycroft might have dug up. The more obscure, the better, probably. Let's try to think of questions for each other that people who were 'bonding' might ask."

"Like what?"

"How many broken bones have you had?"

"Three. You?"

"Seventeen."

"Are you horribly accident prone? Or did you just have one horrible accident?"

"Neither. As a doctor, you must know that there are 26 bones in the foot. I fractured fewer than two-thirds of them. It was a long time ago, and I suffer no residual ill-effects. Next question."

…

After several more rounds of back-and-forth information exchange, John reached for the bottle to refill his wine glass and noticed with surprise that it was empty. Sherlock had barely touched his first glass, so John must have been drinking more heavily than he'd realised. He certainly wasn't drunk, but he was feeling quite tipsy. That was the only explanation for his next question.

"How old were you when you lost your virginity?"

"I can't answer that."

"Sorry. Sorry. I wasn't trying to pry. Of course you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"You have no need to apologise, John. I would have no objection to answering your question were I capable of doing so. However, I cannot tell you the age at which I lost my virginity for the simple reason that such an event has not yet transpired."

"Oh…"

 **End Notes:** Do you think that John might be interested in changing that last fact?

I'm really enjoying all of your reviews. If you'd like to try your hand at the remaining clues, or give me any other feedback, I'd love to hear what you think. :)


	9. Perchance to Dream

**Chapter 9 — Perchance to Dream**

John lay in bed, his body exhausted but his mind awhirl with the events of the past few hours.

He had been surprised by Sherlock's confession. How had the man made it into his 30s without losing his virginity? Was Sherlock asexual? The hardness John had felt as they stood pressed together to activate the door to the bedroom suggested otherwise.

Was this about being a sociopath? Well, self-proclaimed sociopath. Having spent the past couple of days with Sherlock, John seriously doubted the accuracy of that diagnosis. And in any case, he seemed to remember reading that sociopaths were just as interested in sex as anyone else, they just didn't care about their partner's feelings in the way most people would.

But if Sherlock _was_ interested in sex, why was he still a virgin? Surely such an attractive man hadn't lacked opportunities. Granted, he was a bit odd, but also oddly likeable.

So, was Sherlock remaining celibate for some religious or moral reason? Was that why there was nothing but a bible in Sherlock's bedside table, while John's own contained an array of sex toys? Was this another way in which Mycroft was trying to manipulate his brother — by placing him in a situation where he'd be tempted to break some sort of sacred vow? The idea made John feel queasy.

John thought back over his own behavior, hoping he hadn't said or done anything to make Sherlock uncomfortable. No, he decided; while he may have been having impure thoughts — some deliciously impure thoughts, if he was being honest with himself — his words and actions hadn't been inappropriate. Well, at least not until he'd blurted out the question about Sherlock's virginity…

After that awkward moment, Sherlock had declared that they had enough data, and it was time to start trying the combinations on the lock. Since birthdays had been the first idea to pop into John's mind, and since he was the one who had been successful in figuring out the other clues, Sherlock decided that would be a good place to start.

John had looked on as Sherlock typed in their birth dates and hit Enter. He'd been thrilled to hear an immediate whirring sound, but his excitement quickly turned to disappointment; instead of the door opening, a steel panel slid down to cover the keypad. A red message light flashed on: _Incorrect code. Try again in 24:00:00_. The digital timer began counting down. _23:59:59… 23:59:58… 23:59:57…_

An entire day before they could input another code. With all the numerical data they'd amassed, they could try a different combination each day until their six month sentence ran out, and still never get it right. John had sworn in frustration, slamming his fist against the door. Sherlock, however, had remained surprisingly calm.

"Not to worry, John. I now have the gift of 23 hours and 59 minutes in which to think. By this time tomorrow, I will have deduced the code."

John had sighed. "Well, if we're stuck here for another day, I'd like to get some sleep. Do you want to head back through the maze to our rooms?"

"Why on earth would we do that when there's a much more comfortable bed on the other side of that door?"

"Um… There's only the one bed in there, and I didn't want to assume that you'd be willing to share."

"I've already told you, I plan to spend the next 23 hours and 58 minutes figuring out the combination that will unlock this door. You may have the bed to yourself; I don't need to sleep."

And now, here John was, in that much more comfortable bed, but he wasn't sleeping, either. No, he was obsessing over Sherlock like an infatuated schoolgirl. His internal voice took on a high-pitched, mocking tone: _Do you think he likes me? Does he think I'm pretty? Is he going to ask me out?_ John actually laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of his thoughts, then clapped a hand over his mouth, not wanting Sherlock to come out of the bathroom to ask what was so funny.

Mercifully, John was spared the discomfort of explaining himself. The bathroom door remained closed, as it had been for the past hour. Apparently, Sherlock was having a good long soak while he tried to work out the most likely combination to unlock the remaining door.

Of all the personally identifying numbers they'd discussed, which ones would Sherlock's brother have chosen to serve as proof that they had, in fact, bonded. As for that, _had_ they really been bonding? They'd certainly shared information that one wouldn't generally disclose to a casual acquaintance, but was there more to it than that? It felt like more.

He and Sherlock were trapped here together, with no one but each other to rely on. John knew how quickly one bonded with people in dire circumstances, as had happened when he'd been deployed. He'd thought of those army buddies as his brothers, but had their closeness been real?

John had lost touch with all of them once he was invalided out. The lucky ones were still in Afghanistan, trying not to get shot or blown up; they had bigger things on their minds than one John Watson. And the unlucky ones had already been shot, or blown up, or otherwise rendered incapable of staying in touch with him. Either way, those bonds were broken.

Was the connection John felt himself developing with Sherlock just as ephemeral? Was it merely a response to the situation in which they found themselves, a temporary alliance that would evaporate as soon as they succeeded in escaping? Or might it go deeper?

John's thoughts circled back around to the question of Sherlock's virginity. Why did he even care about Sherlock's sex life, or lack thereof? Well, obviously he found the man attractive. But he had no intention of acting on that attraction, for a long list of reasons.

First off, Sherlock was a mental patient. _Sort of._

Secondly, he was a sociopath. _Or so he claimed._

Thirdly, he had chosen celibacy. _Possibly._

Fourthly, this wasn't an appropriate place in which to engage in anything of that nature. _Although the bed_ was _quite comfortable, and they seemed to have complete privacy._

Fifthly, John wasn't gay. _For the most part._

Of course, he wasn't entirely straight, either. But, aside from some experimentation during his university days, John's experience had been predominantly with women. As a young bisexual man, it had just been easier for him to conform to the expected social norms and go along with what all his mates were doing. And it wasn't like he hadn't been successful; the nickname Three Continents Watson had been well earned. But he didn't have that same confidence when it came to men.

John sighed. He knew there was no point in thinking about it any longer, but that knowledge did nothing to still his mind. When, at last, he finally did drift off to sleep, his dreams were of Sherlock.

 **End Notes:** This chapter broke with my usual pattern by being entirely from John's perspective, rather than alternating points of view. Don't worry, though — you'll get to find out what's going on in Sherlock's head in the next chapter. Meanwhile, I'd love to find out what's going on in your head as you read this. **Please review!** **:)**


	10. Bond, Get Smart Bond

**Chapter 10 — Bond, Get Smart Bond**

John was dreaming.

He was lost, alone, stumbling around in the dark. Gradually the blackness faded, and he could make out vague shapes — giant topiary rats in a hedge maze. Were they moving, or was it a trick of the twilight?

A shadow swooped down, and John gasped to see a barn owl with Sherlock's face, eyes unblinking. He turned to watch as it soared away, feeling strangely bereft. He tried to follow, but the labyrinth closed in around him.

John scrabbled at the branches of the hedge, cutting his hands on the thorns. Through a small gap in the foliage, he could see a baby with a mop of dark curls crawling deeper into the maze. John called out, but the child didn't pause.

A hand on his shoulder made John whirl around to find himself face-to-face with Sherlock, dressed as the Goblin King. John shuddered at the deep resonance of his voice:

"I have turned the world upside-down, and I have done it all for you. I am exhausted from living up to your expectations of me…"

Then, as so often happens in dreams, the scene changed. Sherlock was naked, lying on a stone altar, hands and feet bound. All around him stood faceless, black-hooded monks, chanting in a language John didn't understand.

A man in a bespoke suit stepped forward. He looked like an older version of Sherlock, but there was something sinister about him. He held out a silver dagger to John.

"It's time for the virgin sacrifice."

"No," John said, voice shaking. Then, more firmly, "No."

The man nodded to the monks, who grabbed John. "Very well, then you may be our sacrificial lamb."

John struggled desperately against the monks, but they were too strong. He cried out, "Stop! I'm not a virgin!"

"Ah, but your heart is."

…

Ahhhhhhh… A good long soak in a warm bubble bath was just what Sherlock needed. He lay back in the deep water and sighed with pleasure.

For a moment, his mind was neither working in overdrive nor bored, but rather blissfully blank. It was only for a moment, though. Sherlock's brain soon came back online, and when it did, the first window to open surprised him.

John. More precisely, John's question. Still more precisely, his answer to John's question.

When John had asked him about the age at which he'd lost his virginity, why had he replied "Not yet"? _Yet_ implied a situation that was true up to and including the present time, but that might not remain true in the future. Had Sherlock simply misspoken? Or would he actually consider the possibility that he might, at some point, be interested in exploring sexual activities with someone?

 _Someone?_ Who was he kidding? There was only one person he'd found sexually arousing in the past 15 years… John.

Why? Why now, after all this time, was his libido making an unwelcome appearance? More worrying still, why did the mere thought of John awaken unfamiliar _feelings_ within him?

Sherlock had prided himself on being above all that — not subject to the messy temptations of the flesh, or the even messier temptations of the heart. He was married to his work. Work which allowed him to observe, on a regular basis, the disastrous consequences that came about when ordinary people let their judgement be clouded by lust or sentiment. Work which required him to keep his own mind free of such distractions.

Yet here he was, thinking of John, while he should be deducing the code that would unlock the final door. How ironic, though. He _had_ to think of John in order to figure out that clue.

Sherlock replayed every bit of numerical data he and John had discussed. He ran the digits backwards and forwards in his head; added, subtracted, multiplied, and divided them; arranged them in every possible permutation. He kept expecting the code to reveal itself, but the numbers were meaningless.

Sherlock needed more input.

…

John awoke with a start to find Sherlock leaning over him, fingertips against his throat.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

"Taking your pulse."

"Why?"

"Data, John. I've come to the conclusion that none of the numbers we've thought of so far are going to satisfy Mycroft's idea of bonding, so I need more data."

"I was asleep."

"Obviously. That was the point. I'd already observed you while awake. I needed to catalog your rem sleep cycles, and make note of their impact on your respiration and heart rate patterns. Your other bodily functions fluctuate during sleep, as well. For example, you seem to pass gas at a sixteen percent higher rate than while you are awake."

"Oh my god, Sherlock! You can't just watch somebody sleep. It's creepy."

"Not good?"

"A bit not good."

"But you were the one who said we needed to get to know each other better, to bond."

"Yeah, well, getting to know each other is supposed to be a two-way street. It doesn't really work when one of the people involved is unconscious."

"Oh. Well, you're awake now," Sherlock said, leaping off the bed and throwing open the curtains to allow sunlight to stream into the room.

John sighed. Yes, he was awake now, thanks to Sherlock. Might as well get up. John took advantage of the fact that Sherlock was looking out the window to surreptitiously adjust himself in his pants, slide out from under the duvet, and pull his jeans on before heading to the loo.

After relieving himself, John took stock of his surroundings. The bathroom was nearly as large as the entire bedsit he'd been living in before being sectioned — a place from which he'd probably been evicted by now, considering the fact that he hadn't paid the rent in over a month. It's size was the only way in which this room resembled that dreary place, though. Here, everything was bright, cheerful, and luxurious — from the thick, fluffy towels, to the enormous bath, to the expensive toiletries.

John made use of a fresh toothbrush and an electric shaver. He contemplated having a shower, but decided to wait until he'd retrieved some clean clothes. After all, he and Sherlock were stuck here for the rest of the day, so there was no rush.

…

Sherlock turned away from the window when John re-entered the bedroom.

"Ready for breakfast?" John asked.

"Breakfast?"

"Yeah — you know, that meal after you wake up, but before you have lunch."

"We just ate dinner."

"That was yesterday. Today's a new day. Look — the sun is shining, and everything. Come on, I'm hungry."

"But we need to focus on figuring out the code."

"Which we can do just as easily over breakfast as we can here. More easily, in fact, unless you think your brother's idea of bonding involves us having a bloody great row for the next twelve hours."

Sherlock pondered that for a moment. "Possible, but unlikely."

John laughed. "Good. Let's go get something to eat."

…

It had been ages since John had had a good cup of tea. Unfortunately, this was not a good cup of tea. But it _was_ tea, and for that he was grateful. He cradled it in both hands, savouring the warmth and the aroma, and ignoring the way the powdered milk hadn't fully dissolved.

Sherlock sat opposite him, sipping his own tea. He had refused the instant porridge John had offered, but at least there was sugar and milk (of a sort) in his tea, so John supposed he was taking in a few calories. Still, Sherlock seemed too thin, and John had to resist the urge to nag him to eat.

"You said we could figure out the code over breakfast," Sherlock reminded him. "Have you thought of anything new?"

"I don't know. Maybe we've been going about this the wrong way. I mean, exchanging a bunch of random numerical data isn't the way people usually bond. Maybe we should just hang out together, and talk, and see what comes up."

"That doesn't sound very scientific."

"That's because bonding isn't scientific."

"Of course it is. There are covalent bonds, ionic bonds, metallic bonds…"

"People are a little more complicated than chemicals, Sherlock."

"People are idiots."

"Yeah, well, this idiot has been instrumental in getting you past every lock we've encountered, so let's try things my way, okay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but huffed out, "Fine."

…

Doing things John's way involved trekking back through the maze to retrieve clean clothes, showering and changing, then eating _again_ , and talking all the while.

Sherlock found their conversation surprisingly interesting. He didn't know why, but for some reason he enjoyed hearing John prattle on about his childhood, his time at university, his stint in the army. And John was a good listener, as well. It was a rare treat for Sherlock to talk to someone who seemed to understand him without thinking him a freak.

By the time they were on their third meal of the day — which Sherlock had finally given in and agreed to eat — their discussion had turned to favourites: favourite foods, favourite music, favourite books, favourite movies.

"I love anything with James Bond," John told him. "From the original Ian Fleming novels, to the early Sean Connery films, all the way to Daniel Craig. If it's got 007 in it, I'm on board."

"John, that's it! Another clue that Mycroft knew would be meaningful to you, but meaningless to me. A number attached to the word Bond."

…

John froze in his seat, stunned by the simplicity of it. All this time, he'd been so fixated on the other possible meaning of the word _bond_ that he'd overlooked the blindingly obvious.

"Of course! And _Get Smart_ is about Agent 86. _Get Smart, Bond_ is 86007!"

 **End Notes:** I know quite a few of you figured that one out long before Sherlock and John did. My beta-reader and Brit-picker extraordinaire, however, was fixated on the idea of the code having something to do with their respective penis sizes… Unfortunately, things haven't gotten quite so naughty here (yet) but if you're in the mood for a hilariously hot Johnlock penis length comparison, go read (or re-read, or re-re-read) _Little Wee_ by _cwb_ on Archive of Our Own.


	11. Out

**Chapter 11 — Out**

 _86007_. Sherlock entered the code, and the door slid open. He and John stepped through it into darkness, but it wasn't the pitch black of the maze. As Sherlock's eyes gradually adjusted, he could make out two faint rectangles of light.

Taking John by the hand, Sherlock dragged him toward one of the rectangles, which resolved itself into a curtain-shrouded window. He drew the fabric aside to allow pale moonlight to shine into the room.

The wrought iron bars on the windows here were as decisively impenetrable as those they'd previously encountered. These windows, however, had a door between them. A door that led outside.

Sherlock's mind was already running through possible solutions to the last two clues when John squeezed his hand.

"Look. Retinal scanners."

…

John quickly placed his eye in front of one of the scanners, but Sherlock hesitated.

"There's something wrong here. This is too easy. What about the other clues?"

"Fuck the other clues! This has _not_ been easy, and I'm ready to get out of here."

"We could be walking into a trap."

The soldier in John assessed the situation. "You're sure that we're in a government facility, and that your brother is behind it, right?"

"Yes."

"And you've told me that he doesn't want to hurt you, he just wants to coerce you into working for him."

"Yes."

"Well, then, I don't think we're in any danger. And hasn't our goal all along been to escape? So come on — don't make me knock you out, pry your eye open, and hold you up to the scanner."

Sherlock made a noise that was half-indignant, half-amused. He rolled his eyes at John before leaning forward and activating the door.

…

Sherlock turned up the collar of his Belstaff against the cold night air. A gibbous moon lit their surroundings with a ghostly glow.

"Where are we?" John asked, something like wonder in his voice.

"I estimate that we're roughly 600 miles north of London, most likely on one of the uninhabited Shetland Islands."

"So we're going to have to find a boat, or wait for a passing fisherman to rescue us?"

"Possibly. We'll need to do some reconnaissance before we can determine our next course of action."

Sherlock turned to peer back at the building they'd just left. It looked like an ordinary cottage in front, with a hulking monstrosity attached behind it. Should they examine its perimeter before widening their exploration, or should they immediately put as much distance as possible between themselves and their erstwhile prison?

John answered his unspoken question: "If we're on one of the Shetland Islands, we can't be far from the ocean. I don't see any paths, but there's enough moonlight to stop us walking off the edge of a cliff. Let's pick a direction and just keep walking 'til we hit the coast."

Sherlock scanned the sky until he located the North Star. Then, reaching out to take John's hand, he said, "This way."

…

John was a bit surprised to find himself once again walking hand-in-hand with his companion. In the pitch blackness of the maze it had made sense as the most expedient way to avoid becoming separated. Now, though, the moon provided sufficient illumination that they could easily maintain visual rather than physical contact. So why had Sherlock taken his hand?

The man was an enigma. In some ways, John felt he had come to know Sherlock quite well over the past few days, yet so much of the information he'd gleaned seemed contradictory. Based purely on Sherlock's self-description, John would have expected to find him cold, aloof, and impossible to get along with, but his behaviour didn't match up at all. Witness the unexpected hand-holding.

John wasn't complaining, of course. It was pleasant to have Sherlock's large hand in his own. And if he ignored the reasons for their being here, the setting was actually quite romantic — a moonlit stroll, just the two of them. John had to suppress a grin.

…

Within ten minutes, a wall loomed up in front of them. It was 20 feet high, and stretched as far as Sherlock could see in either direction — which, given the low-light conditions, wasn't very far. Sherlock reached out to touch it.

 ** _"FUCK!"_**

Sherlock heard John's pained exclamation a split second before he registered the fact that he'd come into contact with an electric fence, and had passed the current to John through their joined hands. The voltage wasn't high enough to cause any permanent damage, but the nasty shock would certainly dissuade him from approaching the wall again — at least not while the electrified wires in front of it were nearly invisible in the moonlight. Perhaps once the sun came up…

"Bloody buggering fuck, that hurts!" John was muttering, as he shook out his arms and legs. His muscles were no doubt cramping, as were Sherlock's.

"Sorry, John. I didn't realise there was an electric fence in front of the wall. Are you okay?"

"Yeah — are you?"

"Yes. Although I'm more determined than ever to kill Mycroft the next time I see him."

"I'll help."

Sherlock grinned at him, John grinned back, and soon the two of them were giggling and bumping their shoulders together.

"Hey — don't knock me back into the fence!" Sherlock warned.

"It would serve you right. You're the one that got me shocked."

Sherlock lunged for John, catching him by surprise. John hit the ground with an _oof_ , Sherlock on top of him. They rolled around together in mock-battle, both mindful to stay well-clear of the wall.

Sherlock quickly realised that he had underestimated John. The man was small, but remarkably strong, and clearly trained in hand-to-hand combat. Within seconds, Sherlock found himself pinned.

"You're going to be sorry for that," John growled, the threat in his voice softened by the laughter in his eyes.

Sherlock gazed up at him, his own laughter suddenly dying in his throat.

…

John relaxed his hold as he felt Sherlock go limp beneath him. He noted Sherlock's dilated pupils _(a response to the dim light?)_ and his panting breaths _(caused by the exertion of their brief tussle?)_.

Or were those signs of arousal? Were Sherlock's slightly-parted lips an invitation? God, John hoped so.

Well, there was one sure-fire way to find out. John gathered his courage and asked, "Is it okay if I kiss you?"

…

Sherlock had barely rumbled out a 'yes' before he felt John's lips against his own.

 _Soft…_

 _Warm…_

 _Dizzying…_

Gone.

Sherlock let out an embarrassingly needy whimper as John pulled away. He opened his eyes _(when had he closed them?)_ to find John smiling down at him.

"Hello."

Sherlock hummed in reply, unable to find his voice.

"You okay?"

"Mmmhmm…"

"Can I try that again?"

"Mmmhmm…"

…

Sherlock kissed like a blind man reading Braille with his lips. John could feel himself being explored, discovered, deduced. It was a little frightening to be such an open book.

His mind flashed back to the previous night's dream:

 _"I'm not a virgin."_

 _"Ah, but your heart is."_

And now, John's heart was losing it's virginity, as he fell headlong into this kiss with Sherlock. The sharp, fleeting pain dissolved into a gentle, spreading pleasure…

…

Sherlock sensed the shifts in John — initial hesitancy, followed by enthusiasm, then a nervous tension, and finally a melting acceptance. As he made note of John's responses, he was simultaneously cataloging his own: increased heart rate and respiration; warmth and tingling of the skin; a nameless craving.

Then something miraculous happened. Sherlock stopped gathering, sorting, and filing data. His mind switched off, and he simply _felt._

 _Bliss…_

…

John had never experienced a kiss like this: so deliciously sensual, and yet with no sense of urgency, no expectation that it would lead to something more. He was kissing Sherlock for the shear joy of kissing him, and it was perfect.

Eventually, John forced himself to pull away. He looked down at Sherlock's flushed face.

"Hello again."

Sherlock blinked slowly up at him, eyes unfocused. His slack expression gradually bloomed into a smile. "John."

"Yes."

"You kissed me."

"Yes."

"I liked it."

"Good," John said, dipping his head back down to brush his lips against Sherlock's. "But you can't be too comfortable, lying on the cold, hard ground. Come on."

John got to his feet and reached down to pull Sherlock up. Then he stood on tiptoes to give Sherlock one more kiss. "Let's see if this wall goes all the way around the island."

…

Hand-in-hand, Sherlock and John followed the wall. They could faintly hear the muffled sound of waves from the other side of it. The wall curved almost imperceptibly, so that within a hour they had returned to their original location, which John had insisted on marking with a small pile of rocks, even though Sherlock had assured him that he would recognise the spot.

Looking down at the rocks, now, Sherlock noticed that John had arranged them into the rough shape of a heart. He rolled his eyes at the ridiculous sentimentality, but was unable to stop the corners of his lips from twitching up.

"Let's head back inside," he suggested. "We may need to solve the final clues there before we can get off this island."

…

Back inside — in what appeared to be a fairly ordinary sitting room, now lit by the lamps Sherlock had found and switched on — John stood in front of a cabinet secured by a combination dial lock. Through the bulletproof glass at the front of the cabinet, he saw a laptop. John stared at the note attached to it: **_To get to me, use the ass key_**.

...

 **End Notes:** Are you cheering? I hope you're cheering. They finally kissed!

What do you think that last clue could mean?


	12. Using the Ass Key

**Chapter 12 — Using the Ass Key**

John stood frozen, staring at the note on the laptop: **_To get to me, use the ass key_**.

What could it mean? Something about a donkey? Or was this an American version of the word _arse?_ Did the clue refer to the key he'd found next to the dildo and anal beads in his bedside table drawer?

It didn't make sense. The cabinet containing the laptop had no keyhole. Instead, there was a dial lock, as there had been on the door to the kitchen. That suggested they'd need to solve the code for **_Right + left = right & left! Right?_**

So how did those two clues fit together? Well, the key had been in a drawer full of sex toys in John's bedside table, which was on the right side of the bed. Sherlock's bedside table, on the left, held only a bible. So _Sex + Bible = SexBible! Sex?_

SexBible, SexBible, what could that be? Hmmm… What about _The Gay Kama Sutra?_ Harry had given him a copy years ago, in an attempt to get him to join her in coming out to their parents. It was about sex and spirituality, so John supposed it could be considered a Sex Bible.

But how would that help him open the lock? Did the numbers on the dial correspond to pages in the book? John hoped not. Several of the illustrations were indelibly printed on his brain, but there was no way he'd be able to remember the page numbers.

…

Sherlock scanned the sitting room. In addition to the two doors they'd already been through, there were two other doors, one on either side of the room. The door to the left was labeled **COLD STORAGE** , and had a numerical keypad lock. The door to the right was labeled **TO HELP YOU PASS THE TIME**. Instead of any sort of standard lock, it had a large, analog clock face with 12 hands — two each of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet. Intriguing…

Sherlock glanced over at John, who had been standing motionless for quite some time. Crossing the room, Sherlock nudged him aside to see what he had been looking at. Peering through the bulletproof glass front of the cabinet, Sherlock read the note on the laptop aloud: " _To get to me, use the ass key_. Oh! That's it!"

"What's it?" John asked, face inexplicably flushed.

" _ASCII_ — the computer code. The symbols in the clue **_Right + left = right & left! Right?_** refer to the numbers used in ASCII. Plus is 43, equals is 61, the ampersand is 38, an exclamation mark is 33, and a question mark is 63."

Sherlock spun the dial right, stopping on 43, then left to 61, right to 38, left to 33, and finally right to 63. He grinned at John as the door opened.

…

John gave himself a mental slap in the face. Of course he knew that ASCII was pronounced _ass key_. And the fact that the note was on a laptop should have given him another clue that they were dealing with a computer code. But no, he just couldn't get the contents of that bedside table drawer out of his mind.

It had been bad enough before he'd kissed Sherlock, but now it was a million times worse. Because now John knew what it felt like to have their lips meet. He'd kissed Sherlock, and Sherlock had kissed him back, and it had been indescribably wonderful, and he wanted to do it again and again, and there was so much more he wanted to do, but Sherlock was a virgin, and John still didn't know why, and he felt like he was going insane.

Well, if he _was_ going crazy, at least he didn't have to worry about being sectioned. That ship had already sailed. John felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rising within him. He tamped down on it, hard.

…

Sherlock unplugged the laptop and removed it from the cabinet. As he waited for it to boot up, he ran through possible passwords in his head.

The final clue read **_Deduce this password: Render it false._** The word 'deduce' was obviously a reference to his website, _The Science of Deduction_. This clue, then, was aimed directly at him, rather than at John.

Hmm… Once Sherlock had deduced the password, it would become false. The password, therefore, would likely be a statement along the lines of "Sherlock has not deduced this password." But he had to bear in mind that he was dealing with his brother here — a brother who had taken every opportunity to rub Sherlock's apparent weaknesses, and his own presumed superiority, in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock glared down at the laptop and typed: _MycrofthasoutsmartedSherlock_. It galled him to do, but he was instantly rewarded with access to the computer. Take that, Mycroft!

"That was brilliant!"

Sherlock beamed at John, the indignity of having to type his brother's insulting password subsumed by the warmth he felt at John's admiration. "Thank you."

Together, they looked at the screen. There were three icons: a quill, a clock, and a question mark. Sherlock clicked on the quill. It opened a simple word processing program, with extremely limited features and no saved files.

Next, he tried the clock. This was more promising. There were words arranged in a circle in groups of three: **_I FLEW ABOUT, OVER CRAZY EVE, YOU CUCKOO'S THINGS, THE ANGRY FACES, NEST OF WEEKS, MEN HATE NIGHTS,_** and then back to the beginning. The words were printed in different colours, with no immediately discernible pattern: _orange blue orange, blue yellow green, orange blue orange, blue red green, blue green violet, red orange yellow_ , and then around again.

Finally, Sherlock clicked on the question mark icon. A message appeared.

 ** _Clues for John:_**

 ** _He must increase, but I must decrease._**

 ** _And many more believed because of his own word._**

 ** _So there was a division among the people because of him._**

 ** _And the sea arose by reason of a great wind that blew._**

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked.

"I haven't a clue."

 **End Notes:** Do you have a clue? I'd love to hear your theories. Remember, if you want to avoid potential spoilers from my other brilliant readers, you might not want to read their reviews. :)


	13. Conflict

**Chapter 13 — Conflict**

"None of the _Clues for John_ sound familiar to you?"

"Not off the top of my head. But it's been a long day, and _somebody_ interrupted my sleep last night, so my brain isn't firing on all cylinders. Can we put off working on these codes until morning?"

"I suppose you could rest on the sofa while I figure them out."

"Or we could both sleep in an actual bed, and come back to them tomorrow."

"I'm not tired."

"Sherlock, when's the last time you slept?"

"A couple of days ago. Sleep is boring. We have a puzzle to solve!"

"As a doctor, it's my duty to tell you that the way you treat your body isn't healthy. People need sleep. And food. Come on — I'll make us some warm milk, and then we'll go to bed, and in the morning we'll be able to look at these clues with fresh eyes."

"Warm milk sounds revolting, and I told you I'm not tired."

"I'll give you a goodnight kiss…"

…

Sherlock hesitated, caught in a very unfamiliar conflict between his brain, his body, and something which, had he not known better, he might have called his heart. This was intolerable! A lifetime spent subjugating his transport to the will of his mind was suddenly at risk. He had to put a stop to it at once.

"I am not a child, John. I do not need to be told when to eat or when to sleep. And if you think you can manipulate me into doing what you want for a kiss, you are gravely mistaken. Now go away. I need to think."

John recoiled as though he'd been slapped. "Right. Okay, then."

He crossed to the door, typed in 86007, and disappeared deeper into their prison.

…

There was no way to access the bedroom on his own, but John still had the index cards with the clues in his pocket. He spun the dial to enter the kitchen, then typed in the code for the pantry. He scanned the shelves, wondering how things with Sherlock had gone so horribly wrong.

John considered numbing his pain with a drink, but he didn't want to end up like Harry, or their father. And what sort of hypocrite would that make him, anyway? Chastising Sherlock for not taking proper care of his body, and then mistreating his own. No, drowning his sorrows wasn't the answer.

John decided to stick with warm milk. It was what his mum had always made before bed to help him sleep, and he still found it comforting. He added a few drops of vanilla and a sprinkle of cinnamon, whisking it thoroughly as it heated. Then he sat down, mug in hand, to think.

With the perspective granted by a little bit of distance, John could understand Sherlock's annoyance. His time in the army had taught him that when you're on a mission, you have to stay focused. Getting out of this place was a mission for Sherlock. It had been for him, as well. But at some point, he'd been seized by the absurd desire to simply stay here.

 _At some point…_

Who was he kidding? The point at which John's primary objective had changed had been the exact moment at which his lips had first touched Sherlock's. In that instant, the goal of escape became secondary to the longing to spend more time with him.

Well, he'd certainly botched that up. Sherlock had every right to object to being treated like a child. And in hindsight, John could see how what he'd intended as a flirtatious reference to a goodnight kiss could easily have been misinterpreted as manipulation.

John sighed. He supposed the best he could do now was to give Sherlock some space. Later, he'd apologise, and try his best to salvage their budding relationship.

…

When Sherlock told John he needed to think, he'd meant _about the clues_. However, his mind was refusing to cooperate. Every thought he had was of John.

The look on John's face when Sherlock told him to go away was haunting him. He never wanted to see that look again. But why? Caring about someone else's feelings was a new and uncomfortable experience for him. He'd never had anything but disdain for the illogical emotions of others.

This was John, though. John, who'd been kind to him. John, who'd listened to him and not called him a freak. John, who'd laughed with him rather than at him. John, who'd kissed him…

That's when it had all gone to hell. All of Sherlock's carefully cultivated self-control, up in smoke. He could no longer think straight, and without his brilliant mind, what was he? Ordinary. Less than ordinary. _Nothing._

How Mycroft would laugh. "Oh, Sherlock, you simply cannot do anything right, can you? I thought you'd be unable to cooperate with John Watson in order to escape because you're a sociopath. Isn't it ironic that instead you're unable to even _think_ about escaping because you're too busy caring about his feelings?"

But Mycroft (or, at least, the voice of Mycroft in his head) was wrong. Sherlock had figured out those last two clues _after_ the kiss. In fact, those were the only two codes he'd cracked on his own. So, the connection with John wasn't what was interfering with his ability to think.

John — a happy John — was a conductor of light. It was only when the light had gone out of John's eyes that Sherlock's mind was plunged into darkness.

He had to fix this.

…

John lay his cheek against his folded arms, like a primary school student resting his head on his desk. A chair at the kitchen table was certainly not as comfortable as a bed, or even the sofa, but he had no intention of disturbing Sherlock. If he was unable to make things better, at least he could avoid making them worse.

Against all probability, John drifted off to sleep. He was awakened by a hand on his shoulder.

"John."

The most startling thing, for John, was how he wasn't startled by Sherlock's presence. Since Afghanistan, he'd been hyper-vigilant, yet he felt none of the adrenaline rush that would normally occur if he was awakened unexpectedly. Instead, all he felt was relief.

"Sherlock. What time is it? Did you figure out the clues?"

"No. I decided they could wait. I remembered seeing some biscuits in the pantry, and I thought you might like to have a midnight snack with me."

"I'd love to."

…

Sherlock polished off his third digestive and took a sip of the cocoa John had made for him. He had to acknowledge that warm milk was actually quite palatable when doctored up with sufficient quantities of chocolate and sugar, and the smile on John's face when Sherlock thanked him sweetened it even further.

"Do you want me to help you figure out those clues, now?" John asked.

Sherlock studied him for a moment. "No, I can tell you're tired. I'll bring the laptop to the bedroom, and I can solve them while you sleep."

…

John awoke with his face pillowed on Sherlock's shoulder, arm draped across his chest, and one leg thrown over his. Sometime in the night, Sherlock must have decided to quit sitting up against the headboard to work on the laptop, and slipped under the duvet. John had unconsciously cuddled up against him, and was now painfully aware of his morning erection pressing itself into Sherlock's hip. With great care, John eased himself away and tiptoed off to the loo.

When he returned, Sherlock was once again leaning against the headboard, looking at the laptop. His hair was so adorably sleep-rumpled that John couldn't resist planting a kiss on his forehead.

"Any luck?" he asked.

"I've deduced the _Clues for John_ , but I need your help with the other code. I've arranged the words by colour, and I've read the blue one, but I'm not sure about the rest of them."

John looked over Sherlock's shoulder at the laptop, which was open to the word processing program. Sherlock had typed out:

Red — ANGRY MEN

Orange — I ABOUT YOU THINGS HATE

Yellow — CRAZY NIGHTS

Green — EVE FACES OF

Blue — FLEW OVER CUCKOO'S THE NEST

Violet — WEEKS

John snorted. "Looks like your brother's got a bit of a theme going."

 **End Notes:** Did you spot the theme? Can you guess how to use those clues? And what about the 'Clues for John' — any ideas about how Sherlock was able to deduce them all by himself? **Please review. :)**


	14. Re-Evaluating

**Chapter 14 — Re-Evaluating**

" _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ is certainly appropriate," Sherlock said wryly. "Are the others also books about madhouses?"

"Not books, films. And not all about madhouses, either. _Three Faces of Eve_ is about a woman with multiple personality disorder, but the others aren't specifically about mental health issues. Still, I can't imagine that the titles are coincidental. _Eight Crazy Nights, Twelve Angry Men, Ten Things I Hate About You."_

 _"_ There are infinitely more than ten things I hate about Mycroft."

"Oh, he's not so bad. I mean, being electrocuted wasn't fun, and I didn't much enjoy the starvation, but he did provide us with this very comfortable bed…"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched up, he caught John's eye, and soon the two of them were rolling around on the bed in question, giggling madly. This time, it was Sherlock who ended up on top. He hesitated, gazing at John's lips, unsure of his welcome.

John reached up and snaked a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, drawing him down into a kiss. Ohhhhhh… John's lips felt familiar, now — as warm and comfortable as his Belstaff — but there was something exciting here, as well — a midnight chase across rooftops, with his coat billowing in the wind. It was intoxicating.

John's fingers wound themselves in the hair at Sherlock's nape, while his other hand began a slow glide down Sherlock's back, pausing at his waist, then sliding lower, pulling their bodies closer together. Sherlock gasped at the feeling of John's erection rising up to meet his own.

John stilled beneath him. "Is this okay?"

"I don't know," Sherlock answered honestly. "I have no frame of reference. Is it?"

"It's more than okay with me. But I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"I just don't know," Sherlock repeated. "I don't know what I'm feeling. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what I want… And I hate not knowing."

John slid partially out from under him and pulled Sherlock's head down against his chest, carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "That's fine. It's all fine. You don't have to know everything, even if you are a certified genius. It's okay to be human."

Strangely enough, Sherlock believed him. Just this once, he'd allow himself not to know. Lulled by the soothing fingers in his hair and the steady thump of John's heart in his ear, Sherlock drifted off to sleep.

…

John pressed his lips to Sherlock's curls. Asleep, he looked so young, the sharp angles of his face softened, relaxed. John felt a surge of protectiveness for this complex man. He knew that it was a rare gift to be trusted to see this vulnerable side of him — a gift Sherlock did not bestow lightly. He vowed to himself to be worthy of that trust.

John dozed, awoke, stroked Sherlock's hair; dozed, awoke, watched the flickering of his eyelids; dozed, awoke, gathered him more tightly in his arms. Still, Sherlock slept on, days of burning the candle at both ends finally catching up with him. John was content to just lie there, holding him, for as long as he could.

…

Sherlock awoke in John's arms. He snuggled closer, humming in contentment.

"Good morning, sleepyhead. Or should I say good afternoon? There's no clock in here, but I'm pretty sure you've slept the day away."

Sherlock nuzzled into John's throat. "You must have cast a spell on me, because now I'm famished. Want to make me some breakfast?"

"I'd love to."

…

John felt like he was back in the army as he tucked into tinned sausages and beans, reconstituted eggs, and instant porridge. He smiled at Sherlock across the table, glad to see him eating.

Once they'd finished their breakfast, and sat sipping second cups of tea, John decided it was time to broach the subject that had been on his mind. "Can I ask you something personal?"

"Of course."

"I'm curious… That is, I've been wondering… about your reasons for, um, remaining a virgin."

"Sex never seemed to be worth the trouble."

"Oh."

"However, I may be in the process of re-evaluating my stance on the matter."

"Right. Good to know," John said casually, hiding his smile behind his mug.

…

Sherlock stood in front of the door marked **TO HELP YOU PASS THE TIME** , arranging the hands on the clock face to match the colours in the movie titles. Red — 12:00, orange — 10:00, yellow — 8:00, green — 3:00, blue — 1:00. He paused at the final set of hands.

"You never told me how many weeks."

"9 1/2," John answered, a little hitch in his voice.

"What's the significance of that film?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you correctly pointed out that my brother selected titles that were in some way related to our situation here. How does _9 1/2 Weeks_ fit the pattern?"

John hesitated. "It doesn't."

"Of course it does. Mycroft would never be so sloppy. If the connection isn't obvious, perhaps it's another clue."

"Sherlock, I really don't think…"

"John, what is it you're not telling me?"

"It's basically soft-core porn, okay?"

Sherlock froze, temporarily speechless. His brother watched porn. His brother chose the title of a porn film as part of a clue for him to solve with John.

John knew this film. Had he seen it? Did he watch porn? Would he expect Sherlock to know how to do the things people did in _those films_? What _did_ people do in those films? Sherlock felt himself getting lightheaded.

"Breathe, Sherlock."

Right, breathing. Boring, but necessary. Sherlock took one deep breath, then another. He looked into John's worried eyes. "I'm fine."

"I'm sorry I didn't mention it earlier, but I didn't want you to freak out."

"I'm not freaking out."

"You kind of are."

"Fine — I'm freaking out. Why would my brother include the title of a _porn_ film in that clue?!"

 _"_ _Soft-core_ porn. It played in the regular cinemas."

"But why did Mycroft put it in there? Everything he does means something. What does this mean?"

"Maybe he's just messing with your head. You've said that most of the things we've encountered here have been digs at what he perceives to be your weaknesses. Maybe he knows you're a virgin, and views that as a weakness, as well."

"Why on earth would my brother concern himself with my sex life?"

"Why has he done any of this? Having you sectioned and then shipping you off to a secret government facility doesn't exactly smack of a healthy sibling relationship."

"Touché."

"In the interests of, ah, full disclosure, there's something else he's done that I, um, didn't know how to bring up… But, ah, now seems like as good a time as any…"

"Stop dithering, John. Out with it."

"You know the bedside table where I found the key?"

"Yes."

"Well, it was the key to a set of handcuffs."

"That's not surprising. I do consult for the police, after all."

"There were other things in the drawer, as well."

"Are you going to tell me what you found, or will I have to deduce it?"

John took a deep breath, then let it out in a rush. "There were condoms and lube and a bunch of sex toys."

"Oh my god."

"Remember to breathe, Sherlock."

"Oh my god."

"Just breathe."

"Oh my god!"

"Sherlock!" John said, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Snap out of it!"

Sherlock wrenched himself away from John's grip. "Don't tell me what to do! My brother set this all up. You, me, this whole thing, it's all just part of his sick, twisted plan. Well, I'm not going to let him manipulate me like that. Don't touch me!"

…

John felt his blood run cold. This couldn't be happening. But one look at Sherlock's shuttered face told him it was. John staggered over to an armchair before collapsing with his head in his hands.

...

 **End Notes:** Sorry, sorry, I hate to leave them like that. Can you think of a way to fix this?


	15. So There Was a Division

**Chapter 15 — So There Was a Division**

 **Chapter Notes:** _Trigger Warning_ — This chapter includes a description of suicidal thoughts. You can easily skip that section, if you wish, because I've marked it with **xXx** before and after, rather than my usual ellipses (…).

…

Sherlock set the violet hands on the clock face to 9:30. As soon as the door slid open, he stepped through, alone. The way he was meant to be. Alone was all he had. Alone protected him.

He scanned the room, hoping to find a switch to cut the power to the electric fence. He had to get off this island. He had to get away from John.

Sherlock felt sick at the thought of what his brother had attempted to force him into. Even for Mycroft, this was a new low. And the worst part was, he'd nearly succeeded.

Sherlock shuddered. He knew that Mycroft played a long game, always sixteen moves ahead of everyone else. But had John been in on it? Perhaps not from the start, but he'd certainly known about the contents of his bedside table drawer for several days, and had deliberately concealed the information from Sherlock.

Why had he let his guard down? How could he have been foolish enough to trust the man? Sherlock was seized by a sudden, icy rage. John Watson had some answering to do.

…

John looked up as Sherlock stormed back into the room.

"How long have you known about Mycroft's plan?" he demanded.

"Sherlock, I don't know a single thing about your brother or his plans other than what you've told me."

"You knew what was in that drawer. You've known for days."

"Yes, I did, but I had no idea _why_ those things were there. I still don't. Maybe I should have told you about them sooner, but I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"So why tell me now?"

John fumbled to find the right words. "I guess I, ah, thought you should know. In case, ah, we ever, um, needed them. I didn't want you to feel like I'd been hiding something from you."

"So, you concealed the truth from me for as long as it suited your purposes, and then, once the deception no longer served your goals, you changed your tune. You're just as manipulative as my brother."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. But I'm not the enemy here. I'm your friend."

"I don't have friends."

"Right," John said bitterly. "Of course you don't. I wonder why not?"

"I'm a sociopath. Or have you forgotten?"

"Well, I'm sick of being locked up in here with a sociopath. Stick your eye in front of that scanner and let me out. I need some air."

…

Sherlock watched through the barred window as John walked away. He could hear an echo of Mummy's voice in his ear: _Why do you insist on cutting off your nose to spite your face?_

 _Shut up,_ he told the voice in his head. _I don't need him. I don't need you. I don't need anyone._

Sherlock walked back to the door labeled **TO HELP YOU PASS THE TIME**. It refused to open until he'd spun all of the clock's hands to midnight, and then reset them to the correct times. Sherlock huffed in impatience.

Once he'd gained re-admittance to the room, Sherlock began a systematic inspection. It appeared to be another sitting room, similar to the one he'd just left. There were two armchairs, a sofa, and a couple of lamps. Windows were set into two of the walls, and a fireplace rested in a third. A card table sat by one of the windows.

There were four large cabinets, fronted with bulletproof glass. One housed a well-stocked bookcase, another contained a wide selection of games, while a third held a television, DVD player, and collection of DVDs. It was the final cabinet that caught Sherlock's attention, though. Within, he could clearly see a clarinet, and, next to it, his violin.

Sherlock pondered the locks on the cabinets. Each took the form of a digital clock. But which clue matched which lock?

 _And the sea arose by reason of a great wind that blew_ was most likely referring to the woodwind in the cabinet with his violin. Sherlock set the clock to 6:18, and was pleased when the lock released. He resisted the urge to play his violin, instead searching the cabinet for additional clues before moving on to the next.

 _And many more believed because of his own word_ made sense for the bookcase. Sherlock set that clock to 4:41, and was again successful. He flipped through the pages of the books, but no loose papers fell out, and he decided to postpone a more thorough search until later.

Now, which of the two remaining clues would open the game cabinet? Either one was a possibility. Sherlock chose _So there was a division among the people because of him,_ and set the clock to 7:43. To his annoyance, the clock immediately began flashing 12:00. A minute later, a countdown began: 11:59, then 11:58, then 11:57. He'd have to wait half a day before inputting the correct code.

Well, at least he knew that 7:43 would open the final cabinet. Although the code worked, however, Sherlock was disappointed not to find any additional clues within. Nothing in this room seemed likely to bring him any closer to escaping.

 **xXx**

Outside, John was resolutely refusing to think about Sherlock as he half-heartedly conducted his own investigations.

There was a small outbuilding that he and Sherlock had missed in the dark. It had a simple latch on the door. John opened it to find a fully-stocked woodshed.

As he continued around the side of the building, he saw curtained windows, covered by iron bars. Further along, the wall turned to solid concrete and grew an additional storey. It took quite some time for John to complete his circuit of the place.

Next, he headed out across the barren winter landscape toward the wall. The strands of electric wire spaced out in front of it were clearly visible in the fading daylight. John gave them a wide berth. He circled the island, searching for possible means of escape, with no luck.

Eventually, John came across the pebbles he'd so foolishly arranged into the shape of a heart. He gave them a vicious kick. One sparked as it struck the electric fence.

As a wave of despair washed over him, John considered wedging his body between the wires and the wall and letting himself fry, but remembering the pain of his brief previous shock, he thought better of it. Maybe he should just strip off all of his clothes and wait for hypothermia to take him. That should be a peaceful way to go. It could take awhile, though. Faster to head back to the woodshed and use his belt to hang himself from one of the beams.

John shook himself. No good could come of allowing himself to follow that train of thought. That's how he'd ended up here in the first place. Although he'd never directly spoken about suicide with his therapists, somehow they'd known, and it had given them an excuse for sectioning him. Well, that and the fact that they'd found his gun.

It wasn't that John wanted to die, exactly. It was just that, after being invalided home from Afghanistan, he couldn't seem to muster up much of a will to keep living. What was the point? Being a surgeon, serving his country, saving lives — those things had given his life meaning. Now, he was nothing but a useless drain on the system.

 **xXx**

Sherlock gazed out the window into the rapidly gathering dusk. No sign of John. He crossed to the other window. Nothing.

Sherlock glanced at the DVDs. Boring. He leafed through the pages of the books. Boring. He took his violin from its case, brought it to his shoulder, put it down again. If this room was supposed to help him pass the time, it was failing miserably.

…

John cursed as he stumbled around in the darkness. No moon or stars were visible through the heavy cloud cover, and his limp had come back with a vengeance. Knowing that it was psychosomatic only made it worse — a failure of fortitude on his part.

John was furious. Furious with himself for his weakness. Furious with Mycroft for his Machiavellian schemes. Furious with himself for his stupidity. Furious with Sherlock for believing the worst of him. Furious with himself for caring.

…

Sherlock lay on the sofa and stewed. His brother was hateful. This was a truth he'd known since he'd attained the age of reason. But John… Why had John betrayed him?

Sherlock only had himself to blame, of course. A prerequisite for betrayal was trust, and he had made the mistake of trusting John. Sherlock had always prided himself on being an excellent judge of character. How could he have so misread John?

 _Had_ he misread John, though? Most of his deductions about the man had been corroborated by John's words or actions. And Sherlock had known he was hiding something from the moment of their first meal together.

He should have picked up on it even sooner — and would have, if not for his excitement about John finding the key, and then the thrill of solving the clues. Well, the thrill of standing back and watching John solve them. But once they'd sat down to eat, he'd noticed John's nervous tells. He just hadn't known what it was that John didn't want to share.

Well, now he knew. Along with the key, John had discovered a drawerful of sex toys. And lube. And condoms.

The former might be intended for his own amusement, but the latter suggested a partnered activity. And, aside from the two of them, there wasn't another soul in this place. So, what had been going through John's mind when he'd seen the contents of that drawer?

Whatever it was, it had caused John to lie to him. Sherlock had asked him directly whether he'd found anything else, and he'd said "No." Not "nothing important," or "nothing I want to tell you about," just "no." And Sherlock, the fool, had believed him.

Of course, Sherlock lied to people all the time. He lied to gain information, he lied to avoid trouble, he lied for the fun of it. He felt no compunction about tricking those too stupid to see though his ruses. But he hadn't lied to John.

Well, at their first meeting, he had. But that had been when he'd thought John was one of Mycroft's minions, paid to hold him prisoner. Once he and John began getting to know each other, Sherlock had been scrupulously honest. In fact, he'd opened up more to John than he ever had to anyone else. That's what made John's deception so painful.

John claimed he hadn't wanted to make Sherlock feel uncomfortable. Could that be the simple truth? If Sherlock considered someone else's feelings when formulating a lie, he did so in order to manipulate the person more successfully. But what if John hadn't been trying to manipulate him? What if John cared about Sherlock's feelings because he genuinely cared about _Sherlock?_

That idea, shocking as it was, appeared to fit the facts of the case. It would explain the look of hurt he'd seen in John's eyes. Sherlock knew that caring left people vulnerable to emotional pain. That was one of the reasons he'd always avoided it. Now, though, against his will, he'd come to care for John. And, for some unfathomable reason, John, poor idiot, seemed to care for him, too.

…

 **End Notes:** Angst, angst, angst — I hate it! I never intended to write so much of it, but these two idiots just can't seem to get their acts together. I really hope the next chapter will be better…

Meanwhile, do you know where Sherlock found the codes to match the Clues for John? And do you know what time he'll have to set the final clock to in order to access the cabinet full of games? What games do you think it will contain? As always, I love hearing your ideas.


	16. Reunion

**Chapter 16 — Reunion**

John was lost. He had a rough idea of where he was — on one of the uninhabited Shetland Islands — but no idea at all of how to get back to the relative safety of the building. It was dark — not the absolute blackness of the maze, perhaps, but pretty damn dark — and it was cold — not as cold as one might expect in the subarctic, thanks to the Gulf Stream, but still, really fucking cold. And John was lost.

Twice, he'd come into painful contact with the electric fence. The first time, after cursing and shaking the cramps out of his muscles, he had turned his back to the barely-visible wall behind the completely invisible fence, and walked straight ahead, hoping to find the building. However, whether because his limp caused him to veer to one side, or due to the island's irregular shape, within 15 minutes he'd hit the fence again. This time, it knocked him back on his arse, and he lay on the ground, stunned, for a minute.

John stared up into the black sky, considering his options. The night was still, so there was little chance of the cloud cover clearing. There was no way to see where he was going in this darkness, and he had zero desire to blunder into that bloody fence again. He could wait until morning, but at this latitude, the winter nights were long, and if he didn't keep moving to stay warm, he'd be at risk of hypothermia. John sighed.

He had to get back to the building. If not for his own sake, then for Sherlock's. Without John, Sherlock would be trapped in there, with no hope of escape.

Of course, after what had happened, Sherlock might prefer being trapped over seeing John again. The way Sherlock had looked at him, as though he were some sort of rapist, or child molester, froze John's blood much more effectively than the cold night air.

Was what he'd done so horrible? Okay, in hindsight, maybe he should have been honest with Sherlock from the start about what he'd found in his bedside table drawer. But to have Sherlock compare him to Mycroft — the brother he described as his archenemy — seemed an extreme reaction to a relatively minor deception.

This was Sherlock, though. A man who didn't have friends. Or lovers. A man who'd considered making an exception for John. Before he'd gone and cocked it all up, that is.

John let out another sigh. Regardless of Sherlock's current feelings about him, John still cared about Sherlock. He wasn't going to let him down.

John felt around on the ground, scooping up a handful of pebbles and putting them in his pocket. Once he'd gathered as many as he could find, he tossed one at the wall and listened to the clink, memorising the sound. Then he headed in what he hoped was the direction of the building, stopping every so often to hurl a pebble in front of him to warn him if he got too close to the wall.

…

Sherlock was worried. John had been gone for hours, it was dark and cold outside, and he was alone. What if something had happened to him? He could have fallen and broken his leg. He could have stumbled into a pond and drowned. He could be slowly dying of exposure. And there was nothing Sherlock could do to help him.

Sherlock had tried everything he could think of to get out and go in search of John. He'd nearly given himself whiplash bouncing back and forth between the two retinal scanners on the front door, hoping against hope that he could trick them into releasing the lock. He'd rattled the bars in every window, taken a kitchen knife to the door and window frames, and had even tried to wriggle up the chimney, all to no avail.

In desperation, he called out, "Mycroft, if you're listening, you win. Open this door right now and I'll be your consultant." No response. Sherlock typed the message in a 48 point font on the laptop, and held it up, slowly turning it to each corner of the room. Still nothing. If his brother had any surveillance on this place, he must not be monitoring it.

Sherlock was growing frantic. He'd never experienced this before — a fear for someone else. Was this what it was like to care about someone? How did people bear it?

He might never see John again, and it was all his fault. He'd driven John away with his accusations. Maybe John was right outside the door, slowly freezing to death, unwilling to come in and face him.

Earlier, Sherlock had turned on every light and thrown back every curtain, hoping to guide John back. Now, he went from window to window, calling out into the night. "John! _John! JOHN! Please come back, John_."

…

Was that a faint glimmer of light ahead? Yes! John hurried forward, stumbling on the uneven ground. As he drew nearer to the house, he could hear Sherlock calling out. The distress in his voice brought John running. He drew up at the door, staring into one of the retinal scanners.

"Sherlock, let me in."

Almost instantly, the door slid open. John hesitated for a moment on the threshold, before Sherlock grabbed him and dragged him into his arms. Their words tumbled over each other.

"John, I'm—" "Sherlock, I'm—"

"—so sorry," they said in unison.

John burrowed more deeply into the warmth of Sherlock's embrace, relief flooding through him.

"Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it. I don't have friends. I've just got one. Please forgive me."

"Of course. And I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have lied to you. I won't do it again."

…

Sherlock gathered John more tightly in his arms. He was here. Safe, whole, and here, where he belonged. He was also shivering.

"John, you're freezing. Let me make you some hot milk with brandy in it."

"That sounds perfect."

Sherlock led John to the kitchen, sat him down at the table, and fussed around, stirring reconstituted milk, honey, brandy, and a sprinkle of nutmeg in a pan to heat. As soon as it was warm enough, he poured it into two mugs, handing one to John.

"Ta."

Sherlock looked on, anxiously, as John took his first sip. He relaxed as soon as he noted John's pleased expression and saw the colour returning to his cheeks. He tasted his own drink, and silently pronounced it soothing.

John was quiet as he sipped, and Sherlock could think of no easy way to break the silence. His mind and heart were a jumble of conflicting thoughts and feelings: relief, embarrassment, fondness, self-recrimination, confusion, longing… At last, John finished his drink and spoke.

"I'm wrung out. Do you mind if I go to bed?"

"Of course not. May I… That is… Is it alright if I join you?"

The smile that bloomed across John's face erased all of the awkwardness between them. Hand in hand, they headed off to bed.

…

In the morning, there would be time for talking. For explanations. For assurances and reassurances. But for now, all either Sherlock or John needed was the comfort of being in each other's arms.

…

 **End Notes:** Good things are coming up in the next chapter. Really good things…


	17. Falling

**Chapter 17 — Falling**

The first time John and Sherlock awoke, there was talking. Opening up about everything they'd each been thinking and feeling over the past few days wasn't easy, but it left them both with a profound sense of relief that allowed them to fall back into untroubled sleep.

The next time they awoke, there was touching. Of course, they'd just spent the night wrapped in each other's arms, but this was different. If their sleeping touches had been filled with comfort, their waking touches were filled with possibilities.

…

Sherlock could feel John's quiet breath against his nape, John's t-shirt clad chest against his bare back, John's hips pressing into his buttocks, John's arms holding him close. As he snuggled back into that warm embrace, Sherlock felt John's penis begin to swell. His breath caught, then released. Sherlock took John's hand, resting over his heart, and laced their fingers together.

John let out a pleased, sleepy hum, and kissed the back of Sherlock's neck. Emboldened, Sherlock brought John's fingers to his lips. He kissed each one in turn, then pulled the thumb into his mouth and gave an experimental suck.

…

John gasped, suddenly fully awake. His hips bucked forward involuntarily, pressing his cock against Sherlock's arse. God, that arse. How could such a thin man have such a magnificently plush arse? And those sinful black boxers. John could feel the silk around the edges of his own simple cotton pants. Pants which were beginning to feel uncomfortably tight.

Sherlock's tongue was doing wicked things to John's thumb, probing the nail groove, flicking over the knuckle, swirling around in a way that made his cock twitch in vicarious pleasure. For someone who'd never given a blow job, Sherlock was creating an uncanny simulation. As his teeth scraped over the pad of John's thumb, John moaned.

Sherlock released his thumb with a pop. He kissed the hammering pulse at John's wrist, then pulled his arm forward, nosing down into the crook of his elbow. Sherlock mouthed at the sensitive skin there, drawing folds of it between his lips, nibbling lightly, sucking a bruise into the tender flesh. John squirmed against him, nerve endings alight. Sherlock was discovering erogenous zones he hadn't even known he possessed.

…

Sherlock turned in John's arms, bringing them face to face. Yes, that's what he wanted. John's face. A face that had become unexpectedly dear to him. John's eyes — pupils wide, irises denim-blue in this light — gazed back at him with a look of fondness and wonder that was almost painful to accept. John's lips were parted, kissable. Kissed.

Kissing John was a conversation every bit as illuminating as the talk they'd shared earlier. The tenderness with which their lips met, the yearning, John's obvious desire told Sherlock everything he needed to know. Sherlock only had one word running through his own mind: _yes._

He didn't think he'd spoken aloud, but somehow John heard him. Suddenly Sherlock was on his back, and John's hands were everywhere —tangling in his hair, cupping his cheeks, caressing his chest, teasing his nipples, sliding lower and lower…

Sherlock felt like a freshly shaken snow globe — thoughts, emotions, and sensations swirling wildly. John was the hand that shook him, quite literally. John's hands on his body made Sherlock tremble.

But John was also gravity. He pulled Sherlock in, causing him to settle. John was a safe place to land. Like the last snow of winter, Sherlock let himself fall.

…

John was drunk on Sherlock's kisses, on the sight of him laid out upon the bed, on the feeling of his soft skin. He couldn't get enough of that skin, against his own, under his fingertips. Why were there still layers of fabric between them? John quickly shucked his t-shirt and pants, then slid his thumbs into the waistband of Sherlock's silk boxers. A glance at Sherlock's face for permission, a brief nod and subtle lifting of his hips, and they were finally naked together.

Sherlock was beautiful. There was no other word for it. Or, in fact, there were dozens, hundreds, thousands of words, enough to fill an entire thesaurus if John cared to do so, but at the moment, he couldn't be arsed to think of them. Sherlock was beautiful, and Sherlock was here in this bed, and nothing else mattered.

John ran his hands down that long expanse of pale skin, over taut muscles that quivered at his touch. He wanted to explore every inch of this man with his hands, his lips, his tongue. He wanted to drink Sherlock in, to absorb him, to fill and be filled to overflowing.

John covered Sherlock's body with his own.

…

Sherlock's body thrummed with pleasure. John's solid, compact weight on him was a revelation: everything he'd never known he'd needed. How naive he'd been, to think of his body as mere transport, and to scoff at sentiment. This physical and emotional connection with John transcended any mental stimulation or drug-induced high. It was marvellous.

As John rocked down against him, his quiet murmurings resolved into words. Sherlock had expected that, being a doctor, he would use correct, clinical terms, but John said _cock_ , and _arse_ , and _fuck._ Instead of sounding crude, though, his mouth transformed the words into a new language of love. Sherlock had always had a facility for languages. He wanted nothing more than to immerse himself in this one.

…

John's hips knew this dance, rocking down against Sherlock's of their own volition, sliding their cocks together with delicious friction. What had begun as a full-body sensual experience was slowly coalescing into a single point of exquisite focus. John braced himself on his right arm, freeing his left hand to wrap, as well as it could, around both of their cocks, squeezing them together.

Sherlock, quick study that he was, brought one hand down to join his, while clutching his arse with the other. John groaned, thrusting into the tight circle of their fists, fast, faster. Sherlock arched beneath him, crying out, cock pulsing against John's.

John's orgasm slammed through him, stealing his breath. He went rigid, frozen in ecstasy, then trembled through the aftershocks. His arm gave out, and he collapsed down on top of Sherlock. Their softening cocks, trapped between their bellies, twitched in unison.

"John?"

"Hmmm?

"That was brilliant."

"Mmmhmm…"

"Can we do it again?"

"Of course, love. But I think I'm going to pass out, now, so we might have to wait until I regain consciousness."

John heard Sherlock's low chuckle and felt the press of lips against his temple before he drifted off to sleep.

…

The third time John and Sherlock awoke, they did it again.

…

 **End Notes:** I hope that was worth the wait. Please review. :)


	18. The Best Revenge

**Chapter 18 — The Best Revenge**

John had often showered with other blokes — rugby teammates after a match, army buddies in Afghanistan — but never in a way that involved anything except getting clean as quickly as possible. Showering with Sherlock was a completely different experience.

…

Sherlock had never showered with another person. Full stop. If anyone had been foolish enough to ask, he would have said that the idea of an able-bodied adult requiring help to bathe was ridiculous. But that was before John Watson had taken his hand and led him into the bathroom…

Now, here Sherlock was, allowing John to run soapy palms over his shoulders, down his chest, around his waist. His penis — no, John had called it his cock, and that's how he would think of it from now on — was apparently unable to become erect so soon after orgasm, but it made a valiant attempt to rise towards John's fingers.

John smiled at him, open and fond. There was something warm in his eyes, but it wasn't lust. John's hands — soldier's hands, which had taken lives and saved them, surgeons hands, which had cut people open and sutured them up — were touching him with unbearable gentleness.

Sherlock felt a surprising sting of tears behind his eyes, and hastily blinked them away.

…

The emotions playing across Sherlock's face were almost painful to watch. John rinsed the soap from his hands before reaching up to cup Sherlock's cheeks.

"You okay, love?"

Sherlock gazed at him for a long moment. "You genuinely like me," he said in wonder.

"You're only just now figuring this out? Some genius you are."

"When it comes to you, evidence suggests that I may be an idiot."

John chuckled. "Good. Glad I'm not the only one. Now turn around, idiot, so I can wash those glorious curls."

…

 _Boring_ , Sherlock mused, was a more subjective descriptor than he had thought. Take eating, for example. Rather than a necessary chore required to fuel his transport, eating with John was unexpectedly pleasurable.

Perhaps this was due to the fact that he'd worked up quite an appetite during their earlier activities. Perhaps it was John's smile in response to being thanked for making breakfast. Perhaps it was the gleam in John's eyes as Sherlock licked a bit of jam from his finger. Or perhaps it was simply that everything was better when they were together.

"What's the plan now?" John asked around a mouthful of eggs.

"The plan?"

"Yeah. Are we still searching for a way off this island, or should we just hang about here and enjoy the free room and board?"

"Hmm…" Sherlock hadn't considered the latter possibility. He'd been so focused on beating Mycroft at his own game that it hadn't occurred to him that escaping might not actually be the best way to win. "What do you want to do?"

John hesitated before answering. "It's _your_ brother who put us here, so I think the decision is up to you. But you know that saying, 'Living well is the best revenge'? Well, I certainly wouldn't mind living well right here with you at his expense."

Sherlock grinned. "Oh, it would infuriate Mycroft to know that instead of failing to escape, I simply decided not to."

"So, shall we stay?"

"Mmm… Aren't you afraid that we might go mad, cooped up in here with nothing to do?"

"Nothing to do but each other, you mean?" John asked with a smirk.

Sherlock felt himself blush. This was still so new, this feeling of wanting and being wanted. New, and decidedly not boring…

…

John hummed happily to himself as he stuffed clothes into the old army duffle he'd found in one of 'his' cupboards. Mycroft wasn't such a bad bloke, he decided. He'd provided John with everything he needed: food, clothing, a comfortable place to live, and the one thing he hadn't even realised he'd wanted — Sherlock.

At the other end of the long corridor, he could see Sherlock neatly folding his own clothes and placing them into an expensive luggage set. The garment bag alone must have cost more than John's single good suit, which was now rolled up in the bottom of his duffle. He had a momentary pang of self-consciousness about the obvious difference in their class backgrounds, but quickly shook it off. If he was making a list of reasons why he'd never expected to have a chance with someone like Sherlock, wealth and family connections would be nowhere near the top.

Sherlock was gorgeous. Sherlock was brilliant. But, against all odds, Sherlock was his. John felt like the richest man in Britain.

…

Back in their bedroom ( _their_ bedroom — his and John's!) Sherlock was carefully re-indexing his socks when he felt eyes on him. He turned to see John lounging on the bed.

"You finally done?"

By way of an answer, Sherlock strode across the room and pounced on John, who let out a surprised _oof_. Sherlock followed up his advantage by pinning John's hands over his head. "You were staring at my arse, weren't you?"

…

John gazed up into Sherlock's unfathomable eyes and settled on a cheeky response. "Guilty as charged. Are you going to caution me and get out the handcuffs?"

Sherlock's eyes darkened further. He pressed John's wrists together in one huge hand and ran the other slowly down his side. "I think I'd better frisk you for weapons, first."

John shuddered, cock instantly hard. "I may have hidden something down my pants."

Sherlock slid his hand over the prominent bulge and squeezed. John groaned. With a herculean effort, he flipped them over, pinning Sherlock beneath him.

He thrust his hips down with a growl. "You should have disarmed me when you had the chance."

"Show me what you're packing, big boy."

John collapsed against Sherlock, dissolving into a fit of giggles. "Oh my god, you did not just say that!"

Sherlock huffed indignantly. "I thought we were role-playing. My line wasn't any more ridiculous than yours."

"Big boy? Seriously?"

"Shut up."

"What are _you_ packing, big boy?" John teased.

Sherlock silenced him with a kiss, simultaneously pulling their hips together in a way that made perfectly clear exactly what he was packing…

…

Sherlock lay in John's arms, sated and content. He smiled to himself. Perhaps it was madness to think so, but he had a sense that a six-month stay here with John would be simply divine.

…

 **End Notes:** Although this fic is complete, this is by no means the end of the story. In fact, it never occurred to me that I could wrap things up here until Breath4Soul (who generously agreed to fill in while my usual beta-reader / Brit-picker is unavailable) asked if this was the last chapter, and I realized that it does make a reasonable stopping place. So, I've decided to put the next ten or so (currently being written) chapters into a sequel. It's called _Our Divinest Senses_ , and it will pick up right where this story leaves off, tying up the loose ends and giving Sherlock and John plenty of opportunities to explore their newfound physical relationship. I will be posting the first chapter immediately. Please check it out. **:)**


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